Meaning It
by Itzika
Summary: After Sirius' death, Harry begins a study of ancient magics that takes him to the edge of sanity--and humanity. When he's pulled back at the last minute by some of the most unlikely people imaginable, he's a different person. Dark!Harry, Powerful!Harry
1. Meaning It

A/N: I love the idea of Harry becoming Dark, or at least (and sometimes even better) Gray. If you know any good fics like that, please tell me.

Anyway, this story starts right after the climax of OotP. I'm not sure how long it'll take.

I have a few Harry Potter fics going right now. As I am currently OBSESSED with HP, I will probably update fairly quickly for a while. I am already writing the second chapter for this fic. However, I will be encouraged to update more quickly if you review! Please?

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, blah blah blah…

Warnings: Dark!Harry, Powerful!Harry (I will do my best to make them both realistic)

On with the fic!

* * *

"_You need to _mean_ them, Potter!"_

Weeks later, Bellatrix Lestrange's words still continued to echo in Harry's head. He had dwelled endlessly on those words, on the failed Unforgivable Curse that had provoked them, on the hated face that had sneered as the equally hated voice spoke them. He didn't feel anxiety over his O.W.L. results or grief for Sirius; he didn't even have space for anger at Dumbledore or worry about the prophecy. He simply kept dwelling on those six words, turning them over one at a time, thinking about everything they meant.

Bellatrix had _meant_ the Cruciatus Curse she had used on Neville, and Voldemort had _meant_ the same curse when he used it on Harry… but despite Harry's anger at Bellatrix, he hadn't _meant_ to hurt her, to cause her endless, unendurable pain…

Which brought him back, relentlessly, day after day, to the million-dollar question…

_Why the hell not?!_

Why _hadn't_ he meant to use that curse? With all his anger at Bellatrix, all his hatred, all his need for vengeance, why _hadn't_ he meant to torture her?

After hours and days of dwelling and pondering, he thought he had his answer.

_Because he had done it for Sirius._

Sirius wouldn't have wanted Harry to use an Unforgivable Curse. He wouldn't have wanted Harry to use Dark magic for anything, not even to avenge him, not even against Bellatrix Lestrange. And part of Harry, the same part that had realized that Sirius really was dead, had known that. That part of him hadn't let him cast the curse.

So there is was, the answer to Dark magic and the Unforgivable Curses, so simple it could be laid out in a single sentence…

_If you couldn't _mean_ it for your own sake, you couldn't mean it._ Like Bellatrix had said, righteous anger would only hurt your intended victim until the righteousness caught up with you. You needed to really _mean_ to use the curse. You had to _intend_ to hurt them, and _want_ it…

Which, when Harry thought about it, wasn't all that different from regular spells. _Riddikulus, Expecto patronum…_ The incantations (and, sometimes, the wand movements) had to work together with the _intention _of the spell. If you didn't really _want_ it to happen, it wouldn't.

After coming to these conclusions, Harry did something he had never done before when they didn't have homework:

He asked Hermione to help him navigate the library.

* * *

A/N: Okay, I know this chapter was short! The next one will be longer—this one is kind of like the prologue. See? Okay, please drop a review on the way out!


	2. Discrete Magic

A/N: Okay, this is where things start to get set up. This is what Harry wants with the library… and what will allow this to get a whole lot more interesting very soon.

I know it's short… next chapter will be longer.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the books which Hermione is shamelessly advertising on my behalf.

* * *

"Harry…" Hermione began uncertainly as she watched Harry scan the shelves, "not that I'm not pleased you actually _asked_ to go to the library, because I am—I'm thrilled—but… School is ending for the summer _tomorrow._ Even _I'm_ not looking for new books today. Why are you?"

"Hmm?" Harry looked over from the book he'd taken down, having clearly not heard a word Hermione had just said.

The witch sighed. "Why are you looking for books when summer vacation's about to start?"

"Oh." Harry stared at the book title for a long moment, apparently memorizing it, before shoving it back into place and answering the question. "I'm going on a shopping trip early in the summer. I just want to know what to look for."

Hermione nodded, understanding. "You know, it would be easier for me to help you if you would tell me what, exactly, you're looking for."

"I'm not sure, exactly," Harry lied easily. "I want a more complete understanding of _magic_. Not just spellwork, or potionmaking, but magic in general. Why wand movements are important, how nonverbal spells work…" _What makes a spell Light or Dark,_ he added silently.

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose you _could_ look in the books on Spell Theory, or Discrete Magic, but I've honestly found that the most useful books tend to be Muggle fantasy books."

Harry stared at her incredulously. "You're _joking,_" he said. "You get more out of—of jokes like _The Wizard's Handbook _that the _Hogwarts library?_"

"Oh, I don't mean _that_ kind of fantasy," Hermione said impatiently. "Anything that pretends to be a scholarly essay, with no exceptions that I've found, is rubbish. I'm talking about Tamora Pierce's _Circle of Magic_ quartet and Tortall canon; Jim Butcher's _The Dresden Files_; and actually, the Wiccan magick in Isobel Bird's _Circle of Three _series can be useful. I've also found that, on occasion, the _Circle of Magic_ series by Doyle and MacDonald, and more often _A Wizard of Earthsea_ by Ursula LeGuin offer some interesting theories of how magic works."

By this point Harry was staring at her with a strange mix of shock, comprehension, and admiration on his face. Hermione flushed. _"What?"_ she demanded irritably.

Harry smiled and, shaking his head, turned to leave the library. "I think I'm just now starting to figure out why some Muggle-borns are _so good_ at magic."

"What do you mean?" Hermione's voice was defensive.

Harry smiled back at her. "Nothing bad," he assured her. "Just that I think you're so good _because _you're Muggle-born—because you can read all that stuff—not _even though_ you're Muggle-born. So, Tamora Pierce, _Dresden Files, Circle of Three, Circle of Magic,_ and _Earthsea_… Where would you suggest I start?"

They had reached the Great Hall by this time, and they sat down at the Gryffindor table without taking much notice of their surroundings, so that Ron had to run halfway up the table to meet them. "I'd start with _Dresden Files,_" Hermione told him, "because it has a lot of magical theory, as well as some obscure magical creatures we never study. Then Tamora Pierce has some good ideas for controlling magic… So does _Circle of Three_, but it's a different kind of magick than ours. _Earthsea_ is interesting, but doesn't provide many specifics… and anything really useful in _Circle of Magic _would probably be in the first book."

Harry nodded once, memorizing what she had said. Suddenly he spotted a problem with the scenario they were working out. "I don't have any Muggle money," he told Hermione.

"Oh, _that's_ not a problem," she said dismissively. "You can exchange both ways at Gringotts, and if you have _any_ money in the wizarding world, you have plenty of money in the Muggle world. Seriously, it is _expensive_ to go to Hogwarts. You just don't realize because you don't know the exchange rates—well, that and you're filthy rich."

Harry smiled awkwardly, but Hermione plunged on. "Oh, come on! It's just a fact; there's nothing wrong with saying it… Oh!" She smacked her own forehead, apparently realizing something obvious. "But you don't have to _buy_ any of them! You can just borrow my copies! I've got the most useful of the _Dresden Files_ books, and _all_ of Tamora Pierce's… Do you want to borrow them?"

Harry smiled. "Thanks," he said. "That'd be great." Suddenly noticing the food laid out in front of them, he grabbed several fried chicken wings and began eating.

* * *

A/N: Okay, I know not much happened here. These things will allow other things to happen next chapter. And I know it's short, but I wanted to update today, and I've been working on other stories, and getting to another good stopping point would take A. Long. Time. So, next chapter things should get interesting, and it should be longer.

Bye now! Please review!


	3. Heading Home

A/N: Hello! Finally, a long(er) chapter! Um, okay… This chapter was fun. Slight warning: If you're planning on reading _Dresden Files_ at any point, consider yourself warned: I will refer to those books OFTEN in this chapter! I have tried to keep it vague so that spoilers are kept to a minimum while still allowing Harry to think about it freely. And he talks about the _Song of the Lioness _quartet plot, but only in the vaguest possibly sense. End of warning.

Anyway, sorry, but the magic will take a little longer than three chapters. Harry's starting to "lose it," as we would think of it, but he's not Powerful!Harry just yet.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or _The Dresden Files_, or _Song of the Lioness_. Like you couldn't guess that one.

* * *

Harry didn't hear a word of Dumbledore's speech at the Leaving Feast. He had borrowed Hermione's books as she had suggested, and was busy reading _Summer Knight,_ one of the _Dresden Files_ books, under the table. He didn't look up once from the book except to eat.

Hermione was right, as usual—there was a _lot_ of magical theory in _The Dresden Files_. But what really intrigued Harry was the Fae. The faeries were nothing like cute little fairy-tale fairy godmothers. Even the actual faerie godmothers could be threatening and manipulative. The Fae didn't seem to care at all about the politics that humans spent so much time dancing around: light, dark; good, bad. Their morality, if they had one, was completely alien to humans.

Another event reminded Harry of the life debts Dumbledore had mentioned after Harry had saved Pettigrew. Maude had complete control of Harry Dresden, and in that case _she_ personally had done nothing to obtain such a debt. But Dresden's fairy godmother had tricked Dresden into binding himself to her, and later, Maude had purchased the debt from the Leanansidhe. The power that gave her over him was… incredible. Harry's eyes gleamed as he thought of it. He knew that wizarding life debts couldn't be as powerful, but he was still glad, for the first time, that he had saved Wormtail's life.

As people around him finally stopped eating and rose to go to the carriages, Harry finished the book and closed it, deep in thought. He stood when Hermione grabbed his arm and dragged him to his feet; after shaking off her arm, he followed her out the door, silent and thinking about what he'd read. When he ran into Malfoy just outside, he had to refocus on the outside world to hear what the blond was saying.

"Well, well, _Harry Potter,_" Malfoy sneered. "The big hero once again, huh? And still, nothing to show for it but a cut on your head. Speaking of which, I'd be glad to give you another one…"

Harry wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were fixed on Malfoy; around the boy he could also see Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle. He stared at them for a long moment, eyes slowly moving to each in turn, before something suddenly clicked for him.

"You're the Fae."

At this point Hermione appeared to realize that Harry was not right behind her, as she had previously thought. She ran back quickly and seized Harry's arm in an even tighter grip than when they had led Umbridge into the forest. "Come _on_, Harry! The others are waiting!"

The Slytherins, for their part, seemed too weirded out by Harry's strange words to do more than stare as Harry left. As he started walking on his own and pried Hermione's fingers off his arm, he heard Pansy shriek, "Merlin's beard! The wizarding world's savior's lost his head!"

Harry didn't even look back, although Hermione threw Pansy an acid glare before jumping lightly into the compartment. He climbed up slowly, still thinking.

The Slytherins were the Fae—they weren't some gang of comic-book bad guys who knew that what they were doing was wrong. They believed that they were superior and were right to kill anyone who was inferior. They weren't acting on evil; their morality was just different. It didn't involve meaningless words like Light and Dark, but words that meant something to them: Pure-blood, Half-blood, Mudblood. As far as they were concerned, the laws might have been changed for them.

Harry stared out the carriage window as the grounds flashed by the window. If the Slytherins were the Fae, what were the other houses? The Gryffindors were brave—but not just that; they were chivalrous and noble. They had the same morality as most of the world, and the daring to enforce that morality. They were the White Council, the rulers of the magical world.

The Ravenclaws were harder. They weren't any group or council of people—they were textbook-intelligent, and wise as philosophers. They were like the wizards' teachers—or like Bob, the skull-dwelling ghost that provided so much of Dresden's information.

The Hufflepuffs… well, they were Billy and his crowd. Loyal, hard-working… not necessarily very good at it, but they always tried their best, and a fair number of them got it in the end.

So there he had it, the hierarchy of the Hogwarts Houses. If he himself took the role of Dresden (which was fair enough, as they shared a name), then a few interesting connections were forged between himself and the rest of the school.

At this point, looking out the window, he spotted Hogsmeade Station, with all their belongings laid out on the platform. He took out the small luggage tag he carried in his pocket and saw that only Luna was as ready as he was.

They smiled at each other, neither smile quite reaching their eyes, and waited to reach the station.

* * *

Harry was the first one out of the carriage. He held up the luggage tag he carried and saw the string point forward and slightly left. Following the string like a compass needle, he wove his way through the mess of students and luggage and retrieved his trunk from the end of the platform about a minute before his friends collected theirs and reached him, and several minutes before the train doors actually opened.

Harry glanced over his friends—Hermione, Ron, Neville, Luna, Ginny—making sure they were all there, before boarding and heading straight for the back of the train.

"Harry," Hermione said tentatively when they found an empty compartment, "is… something wrong?"

He looked over from where he had just heaved his trunk into the luggage rack. "No, why?"

"Well…" Hermione said, but Ginny finished for her.

"You haven't said a word since before the Leaving Feast."

Hermione nodded.

Harry frowned, then realized that Hermione must not have heard what he had said to the Slytherins. Which was for the best, he decided. Hermione might ask awkward questions—and, he reminded himself, she had actually read the book. She would know what he had been talking about.

So what was he supposed to say? If he said he was thinking about the book, Ron would scorn, Luna would stare, Neville and Ginny would ask questions, and Hermione would either be delighted or think he was getting too interested and ask for the book back. Either set of reactions would be undesirable. So he took the other option.

"Oh," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry about that. I guess I've just been thinking… you know, about… him."

He didn't have to specify. If they thought of Sirius, they would leave him alone; and if the ignorant trio thought of Voldemort, they would leave him alone even more readily.

It was _not_ a part of his calculations for Hermione to run up to him and give him a very tight, protective hug. "Oh, Harry," she said into his shoulder, "I'm so sorry… I should have left you alone…" She pulled her head back and looked at him, and he saw that she was crying. "Do you want to talk about it? Or… I guess… You probably want to be alone… Or we could do something… Play Exploding Snap, or wizard's chess, if you want to take your mind off it…"

Harry stared at Hermione. What in the world had prompted _this?_ She had been in love with Ron for the past five years, so it couldn't be that… Was it just sisterly love? He wanted to know… He stared into her eyes and wished desperately that he could find out what Hermione was thinking…

The noises around him became a meaningless buzz. He saw nothing but Hermione's face… Hermione's eyes… She was sad, but also sympathetic. _Why?_

She was thinking about a funeral.

Harry jerked when he saw it. When she was seven, her grandfather had been in the hospital. He had been diagnosed with tuberculosis, and had been so ill… The doctors had thought he would never recover… But Hermione had sat by his bedside for hours and days, and when none of the nurses were looking, she had held his hands, and she had cried so hard and so long she wore her voice out…

And then her grandfather had reached out and dried her tears. She had looked up, hardly daring to breathe, afraid that if she blinked it would go away. Because there was her grandfather, smiling, awake for the first time in weeks, completely healthy…

But when she had run from the room, smiling so broadly she had thought her face would split, and gone to tell her family, she had found them kneeling over her Uncle Marc. Her young, fit, immune-system miracle of an uncle, the sheriff who was always joking about arresting her, had died.

He had caught and died from tuberculosis in less than ten seconds.

Harry realized suddenly that his hands were shaking, that tears were running down his face, and he hastily wiped them away. Only when he tasted the salt and felt the coolness of his own tears did he realize that he wasn't in Hermione's memories anymore. He stumbled back and sat down heavily on a bench in the compartment.

"Harry? Are you alright?" Hermione asked, sitting down beside him. "I'm sorry… Do you want to be left alone?"

He blinked away the last of his tears and looked at Hermione. For the first time he understood why, failing Ravenclaw, the Sorting Hat had put Hermione in Gryffindor. She wasn't all brains—she had suffered, and had the courage to move on and forgive herself.

She belonged in Gryffindor.

She belonged in the White Council.

"I'm fine," he told Hermione, keeping his voice deliberately even and free of tears. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

He looked over at Ron. "Let's play wizard's chess," he suggested. "Last few hours of magic and all… It's tradition."

Ron nodded, apparently dumbstruck. Harry guessed that he thought Hermione had a crush on Harry. Too bad. Ron would have to figure out his mistake on his own—Harry wasn't going to help him.

* * *

Harry got off the train at the end of the day, once again dressed in jeans held up with a thick worn belt and a T-shirt that was much too big. He looked around at all his friends, only then realizing that he wasn't going to have any contact with them for the rest of the summer. Neville and Luna weren't close enough to write; the Weasleys never wrote very often. He sighted on Hermione and pulled her aside.

"Hermione," he said quietly, "um… would you write this summer? Often, I mean? I want to discuss the books with you." _And I want to find out more about your experiences with magic from before you came to Hogwarts,_ he added silently.

Hermione smiled mischievously. Harry wondered if he was going to like what the witch would say. "How about this?" she said. "I will write at least one letter every two weeks. If you want more than that, _you_ write to _me._ I'll respond to every letter right away. All right?"

Harry smiled and held out his hand for Hermione to shake. "Deal." He watched her for a moment, then seized her in a hug. "I'll write, and you write back," he said when he pulled away, and turned to find the Dursleys.

Vernon's face looked even more like a tomato than usual as he looked his nephew over, walking toward them calmly with a trunk full of spellbooks and a cage with an owl. "All right," he spat. "Now hurry up and let's get out of here. Can't have your _abnormality_ polluting all these decent people."

Harry stared his uncle down for almost a full minute. Where Vernon's glare was colored with fury, Harry's gaze was disturbingly blank. He didn't appear angry, or anything else, in the least. When his uncle finally looked away, he simply said, "Okay," and followed him.

There was a welcoming party outside. Recognizing Moody and Tonks, Harry rattled his trunk so that Hedwig shrieked and Uncle Vernon walked even more quickly, completely ignoring the other weirdoes in the station. Harry, for his part, walked right by as though he hadn't seen them.

He didn't want any interference this summer.

* * *

Harry dragged his trunk up the steps to Number Four, Privet Drive, up to the second story, into his bedroom, and sat down on the bed. He needed to think for a little while longer.

He had undoubtedly just used Legilimency on Hermione—but how? He had never trained to use that kind of spell; he hadn't even tried. He had only _wished_ it… and it had happened.

But you couldn't just _wish_ a spell into working.

Harry stood up again and opened his trunk. Half the space was always reserved for his schoolbooks, and with the addition of Hermione's fantasy books, it had been difficult to fit all his clothes in and still close the lid. He could learn from the books Hermione had given him. They were new material; he could find out what he'd done on the train.

_Of course,_ he reflected, _it could just be the connection at work again._

He sat back on his heels for a moment and thought about that possibility. Voldemort was the greatest Legilimens the world had ever seen, and Harry had a direct line to his mind. It was entirely possible that Harry had been using Voldemort's skill as inadvertently as he did Parseltongue.

But for some reason, his mind rejected that possibility. So Harry pulled out the _Song of the Lioness _quartet books, the first of Tamora Pierce's Tortall canon, and began to read.

* * *

It took three days for Vernon's impatience to overcome his desire not to see Harry.

When that happened, the door was smashed open so violently it cracked and one of the hinges let out a protesting squeak. Vernon's beet red face and enormous frame filled the doorway. Harry shut the lid of his trunk. He had just finished the _Song of the Lioness_ quartet, despite the books making him twitch with the utter simplicity of it all (the man wants to kill us, we must stop him, blah, blah, blabbity blah), and there was nothing in the room that his uncle could get upset about. His anger would only be fueled by its original cause.

"BOY!" Vernon roared.

Harry looked down at himself. "Wow, yeah, I guess I am. I don't come of age for a while still…" He was grinning by the end of his declaration.

Vernon strode into the room, grabbed Harry by the arm, and slammed him into the wall. "That's right, boy," he said threateningly. "You don't. You're under our roof and our rules, and you can't use magic…"

Harry's head fell forward. His body began to shake. Vernon smiled at what he saw as an act of submission, but the smile disappeared the next moment as Harry's laughter became audible.

"Oh, Uncle Vermin," he laughed. "Why would I bother with magic?"

His hand shot forward; his thumbnail drilled into the side of Vernon's neck. His knee rose to strike Vernon so that the man yelled and let go. Harry walked backwards around behind his bed.

"What the hell's gotten into you, boy?" Vernon hissed when he could speak through the pain.

Harry was still chuckling. "Well," he said, "I'm hungry. And I've been reading, so I haven't slept much… You know how that can make a person."

He was reaching into his trunk as he spoke. Finally his hand came out holding two thick spellbooks.

Vernon glared at him, straightening with a visible effort and walking forward to hit Harry.

Harry threw one of the books, the thicker _Defensive Magical Theory,_ down onto Vernon's foot. There was a sickening smashing sound and Vernon doubled over, clutching at his broken foot.

Harry smiled the same smile he'd given Luna and crashed _A History of Magic_ down onto the back of his uncle's head with all his strength.

Vernon passed out.

Harry stopped and looked at what he'd done. He was shaking for real now, and he wasn't laughing anymore. For the first time in his life, he had fought his uncle…

And he had _won._

He watched blood seep into Umbridge's selected, highly useless text from Vernon's foot. What was he going to do now? One hand rose to his hair as he thought about what had just happened. His head was spinning…

First order of business, then: Get something to eat.

* * *

A/N: Okay, that was a weird stopping point.

Anyway, school is begun! Boo… So… I will keep working on these HP fics. Once school starts, I tend to work mainly on fanfic anyway. But, considering my class load this year, I probably won't have time to do three chapters a week. So this is where you come in, my wonderful readers! I will work harder, aka update sooner, on the fics that are reviewed more! Okies?

So please, please, PLEASE, hit the little purple button and tell me what you think. Make me feel all loverfulled! Okay? Please? Come on, it takes like thirty seconds (assuming you've got good internet). Thanks!


	4. Burn, Baby, Burn

A/N: Hi! I'm back! Okay, I had hoped to post this yesterday, but for lack of time (only partly) beyond my control, I was forced to wait until today. So here it is: Chapter 4!

Thank you to my reviewers! Your support makes this the first of my fics to be updated, and the one that's on highest priority to keep up weekly updates!

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Dresden Files, any of Tamora Pierce's books, the Circle of Magic series, or the Circle of Three series.

Speaking of which, ALL of those are now Harry's textbooks! Harry will use ALL of them, so I will refer to ALL of them! I will (barring unforeseen future developments) avoid referring directly to major plot events or spoilers, in case any of you are planning to read the books! (cough they are good cough I'm not advertising, what are you talking about?)

Anyway, on with the fic!

* * *

Harry walked past his aunt and cousin without so much as acknowledging their existence. He strode purposefully right up to the fridge and opened the door.

Inside were all the foods that Dudley was still allowed to eat, in copious amounts: fruits and vegetables, milk and juices, a few meats for dinner. Harry scanned the shelves, scooped up a bunch of grapes and a bagged sandwich, and turned.

Petunia stood in front of him.

"What do you think _you're_ doing, young man?" she demanded. "Where's Vernon? He went up to make sure you were…"

It was all meaningless noise. Harry was hungry, and he was tired, and he had a lot to think about. He did _not_ have the patience to deal with Petunia civilly.

"Hey, Mum!" Dudley yelled from the other room. "Come see what's on the telly!"

Petunia broke off her rant suddenly and rushed into the other room to check on her Dudders. Harry frowned and looked over towards the dining room. Hadn't Dudley been standing _there_ when Harry had come into the room?

He shrugged it off as meaningless and headed upstairs.

"Oh, you _just_ missed it, but it was great!" he heard Dudley say as he went upstairs.

Harry stopped dead three steps away from the top of the stairs. Dudley _had_ been in the room when Petunia had started ranting. And not half a minute before she would have went to get Vernon, Dudley had distracted her. Was Dudley… _helping_ Harry? Why would he do that?

Mulling over this strange new development, Harry climbed the rest of the way up to his room and sat down on his bed.

Speaking of Vernon…

Harry watched his uncle. The man didn't appear to have woken since Harry had knocked him out. His foot was still bleeding, and was horribly bruised. He definitely needed medical attention.

But Harry wasn't going to be the one to give it to him.

Harry ate the sandwich, which turned out to be ham and cheese, and thought. If Petunia found Vernon like this, or decided to report him missing, then Harry would be in trouble. If he showed Vernon to her, he would be in trouble. If he tried to frame Vernon for hurting himself—by pushing him down the stairs or some such thing—Petunia would assume that Harry had done it.

Unless Vernon said he had hurt himself.

Harry raised one eyebrow as he thought about it. It would be so _easy_ to fake this—all he needed was some cop-out explanation for the foot.

Of course, there was _Defensive Magical Theory_ lying on the floor, already soaked in his blood…

Harry smiled and swallowed the last of the grapes. He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans, and bent down to move Vernon.

* * *

It took almost twenty minutes to drag Vernon from Harry's room to the bathroom right next door. That wasn't even counting the time before that Harry spent wrapping his bed sheet clumsily around Vernon's broken foot to absorb most of the bleeding. Then, when he was finally there, he had to set up the rest of his act.

First, he arranged Vernon's hands so that the police would find the man's fingerprints, very distinctly, on the book, and left it right by his uncle's face. Next came the _pièce de résistance_.

When it was all finished, all Harry had to do was go to his room and be ready to act scared when someone found Vernon.

This took a surprisingly long time.­

* * *

The police talked with Petunia for a long time. She argued with them—it had to be the boy, it was his fault and you know it—but the police were firm.

"Look, ma'am, your husband's prints are on the book, and your nephew's aren't on the bottle of meds."

"IT WAS HIM, I KNOW IT WAS HIM—"

"Mum!" Dudley broke in. "The police say Dad did it to himself! Why can't you just trust them to do their job?"

Harry kept his eyes away from Petunia, but he chanced a glance at Dudley. The boy looked over at Harry guiltily, then looked away.

The police asked a few more questions of each of the people present before finally leaving. When they were out of sight, Petunia stomped over to Harry, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him. "You did it, didn't you?" she shrieked. "You did _it,_ and now my husband's _dying, _you pathetic little freak!"

Harry had to marvel at the woman's ability to exaggerate.

"But Aunt Petunia," he said reasonably, "I'm not allowed to do _it_ outside of school. You know that."

Something that looked like the mutant child of a smile and a grimace twisted Petunia's features. "That's _right,_" she hissed, sounding a lot like Vernon had not ten hours before. "And when we get home and there's one of those filthy _birds_ from your filthy _Ministry,_ you will _wish you had never been born, boy!_"

"And when there _isn't_ a bird there?" Harry asked quietly. "What then?"

Petunia froze. Two seconds later, a loud _slap_ resounded through the hall.

Harry raised a hand to his stinging cheek. Dimly he heard Petunia yelling, "You cheeky little _freak!_" Even more dimly he heard Dudley saying, "Mum, if there's no letter, then just let it go. I mean, what do you think he did? Beat Dad in a fair fight?" The only clear thought in his head was, _She _meant_ that one._

And with the reminder of what had started his obsession, he vowed to start his work on magic the moment he got home.

* * *

Petunia had locked Harry in his room as soon as they returned home.

He knew she had meant it to be a punishment, of course; but it suited him all the same. He finally had unlimited time to himself, and it would take a while for Vernon to wake up and tell them what had really happened.

In just a few days, he read two more _Dresden Files_ books, _Fool Moon _and _Grave Peril;_ the first three _Circle of Three_ books; _School of Wizardry, _the first _Circle of Magic _book; and Tamora Pierce's _Circle of Magic, The Circle Opens, _and _The Circle Reforged._ He read almost constantly, only stopping to eat the (surprisingly hot) meals Petunia and, sometimes, Dudley pushed through the cat flap on the door, sleep a few hours at a time, or use the bathroom.

A week after the start of summer break, Harry started making a list of everything he had learned about magic.

_Dresden Files:_

1. Werewolves

2. Vampires

3. Fae

4. Words shield mind from magic

5. Thaumaturgy

6. It is possible to channel magic through intention and will

Tamora Pierce:

1. Magic is a Gift

2. Each spell has a theory

3. Meditation

4. Appeals to gods

5. Each person's Gift is limited

6. Magic can be forcibly directed

7. Magic can be joined between people

8. All living things have _some_ kind of magic

9. It's harder to heal than it is to kill

_Circle of Three_

1. Magick is a universal force

2. Elements, directions, circles

3. Spells are basically more forceful prayers

_School of Wizardry_

1. Lies and magic don't work in the same mouth

2. A wizard may use no knightly weapons

3. Elementals

4. Magic can work by sheer will

Harry tapped his chin with the quill thoughtfully. _School of Wizardry_ was almost useless for his purposes—although come to think of it, Hermione was probably the most honest of them (except for their third year, when she had lived a lie), and she was certainly the best at magic—but it told him something important that agreed with _Dresden Files_ and Tamora Pierce. It told him, in no uncertain terms, that his magic was his to command by his own will.

He decided to test that.

* * *

Harry took down one of Dudley's books from the shelf. Like all the others, it looked absolutely pristine, with maybe a thin coat of dust along the spine. It wouldn't stay that way for long.

As he had learned from _Song of the Lioness,_ it was harder to heal than it was to kill. Logically, this should mean that it was easier to magically destroy something than it was to bring it back.

Harry set the book down on the plate Petunia had delivered lunch on. He searched the room for matches and finally, miraculously, found a half-empty box under the dresser that Dudley must have used during his pyromaniac phase. Next he tore out a single corner of a single page of the book and got ready to try, for the first time in his life, deliberate wandless magic.

He had decided to start with thaumaturgy—affecting a small model to cause a similar effect in its larger counterpart. Really, the sizes didn't matter, but it was more convenient to burn something small than to start with the whole book.

Harry struck a match on the side of the box and lit the scrap of paper. He focused on the book then, and said, fiercely, pouring conviction into his voice, _"Burn."_

The book stayed the way it was. Harry dropped the flaming paper into another dish and let it burn out, frowning.

"Okay," he said finally, "try other words. _Order_ it. It is _not_ a request."

And it wasn't. He was _telling_ the book to follow the example of its lost piece. It should work.

He ripped out another piece of paper and set that one on fire. Holding it up so that he saw the book through the flame, he said, _"Incendio."_

That didn't work either.

He tried again. This time he envisioned the book burning, from start to finish, before he focused on the image of the book on fire and finally set match to paper. _"Fuego,"_ he ground out with all the force he could muster.

The book stayed resolutely whole and _un_burned.

Frustration grew in Harry, boiling under his skin. He squelched it down impatiently and tried again.

This incantation was longer. He turned it into a little ritual.

"_Bright flame, light fire,"_ he chanted as he struck the match, _"Around the book burn higher."_ He waved the match over the book, picking up his next scrap as he did. _"Light the fire, bright the flame—"_ he lit the paper, _"Burn the book in Mithros' name."_

Oh, well. He hadn't really expected that one to work.

He tried once more, appealing to the burning flame that was the South, but the book still refused to burn.

Frustration was really battering at his defenses now. He leaned back against the bed, wondering why this wasn't working anymore.

Wait.

_Anymore?_

Harry sat bolt upright, eyes flying open. He had _never_ done this before…

Except he had.

He had never _tried_ to do wandless magic before; that was true. But he had _done_ it. He had used Legilimency on Hermione; he had spoken Parseltongue; he had blown up Marge; he had made glass disappear…

So what made it so hard to do _now?_

To figure that out, he would have to figure out what had made it all work back then. What had Hagrid said when he had come to collect Harry? "Never made things happen when you was scared or angry?" And that was what had convinced Harry, because whenever in his life he had been really scared or angry, the world around him had, just for a moment, done exactly what he wanted.

And that was what had happened on the train, wasn't it? The world had done what he wanted. He had really _wanted _to see why Hermione was so upset, and he had seen it.

Parseltongue wasn't like that. It happened naturally, whenever he talked to a snake. He dismissed this exception impatiently. His other experiences not only tallied with each other, they tallied with what Bella had said—_"You need to _mean_ them!"_ She had said that you had to _want_ it, that your intention was important. You had to enjoy casting the spell, or it wouldn't work.

So then, Harry thought, _that_ was why these spells weren't working. He was only _telling_ the book to burn, just for the sake of burning. He had to really _want _it.

Who knew how long it might take to do it this way? He couldn't use thaumaturgy this time. He would have to make the book burn by sheer brute force.

Harry fixed his eyes on the book, settling into a cross-legged position. _Burn,_ he ordered the book silently, although he didn't expect that to work on its own.

"I _want_ you to burn," he said aloud.

But it wasn't true; destructive impulses were very unlike him, and he _didn't_ want to burn the book.

_Yes, I do,_ he thought fiercely. "I _do_ want this," he repeated. "I _do _want this book to burn."

Why did he? He called on his frustration over his failed attempts, on his anger and hatred for Vernon, on the envy he had felt as he read about Dresden and Alanna, on his fury at Bella. He wanted to settle _all_ of that. Burning this book would be the first step to accomplishing that—a very, _very_ important first step.

And despite the illogic of this reason, the destructive emotions he had chosen to fuel it were quite useful. Anger and a host of other fiery, burning emotions rushed into his intention. In half a second he went from trying to convince himself he _did_ want the book to burn…

To watching hungry flames consume the ink and paper like Dudley eating a hamburger and fries.

Exhilaration flooded Harry. He watched the flames leap high, higher as they burned the thick book away in mere moments to a thick pile of ash.

* * *

A/N: Yay! That was fun! Finally, Harry starts learning wandless magic! (Yes, four chapters constitute 'finally' in my dictionary.) Don't worry, this isn't a -snaps fingers- and now he's the most powerful wizard in the world deal. There is still work ahead!

Moving on…

Okay, I've been nice! I'm in school, but I still got this updated quickly! So let's set some terms.

I've started working on the next chapter. But I won't put it up at least until I get 11 more reviews. This should not be hard! This is EASILY my most popular story! I'm so happy people seem to like it so much, but I'd really, really like more of you to review! So, there are 14 reviews now. When that turns into a 25, I'll update again ASAP. (Sorry, but one per week is still my limit. I don't want to run out of ideas and not update for six months. Also, if I don't have the next chapter written, I won't post it… obviously.) 'Kay?

Thanks! Bye now! Please review!


	5. Magic and Magecraft

A/N: Hi! Thanks to all who reviewed, I'm back! (Thanks in some part to spedclass' very, very cheap way of racking up the review count!)

Here's the next chapter of "Meaning It." It's longer than the first two… it looked longer on paper. Oh well. Everything I wanted to happen here, does.

Please read and review!

* * *

Harry sat back against the bed, breathing heavily and suddenly aware of the sweat flooding his face.

There was a scraping sound and Harry looked to see a sandwich and a bowl of soup pushed through the cat flap by Dudley's thick hand. Harry smiled slightly to see steam rising from the soup. Whatever hold he had on Dudley—and he thought he had a pretty good idea of what that hold was—it was strong.

Harry started to move, then stopped when he realized that Dudley's hand hadn't retreated. Dudley's eye was staring through the cat flap at the room beyond.

"What are you _doing?_" he asked, astonished.

Harry looked around the room disinterestedly. Various books bore small scorch marks; there was still a pile of ash on a plate from his one really successful experiment; scraps of paper and spent matches littered the floor; and, of course, Hermione's books scattered around the room and the sweat on Harry's face made for a strange picture in and of themselves. Harry considered a few various lies and cover-ups before saying, on the spur of the moment, "Magic. Gonna rat me out to your mum?"

Dudley's eye got big and round, but he shook his head. "Would you move this stuff?" he asked. "Please?"

Harry blinked several times at that, trying to suddenly comprehend a world where Dudley said _please. _"Why?" he finally said.

"So I can come in," Dudley answered, as though this should be the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry watched him suspiciously. Dudley sighed. "I just wanna _talk,_" he said.

Harry stood slowly and moved the food and books out of the door's path. He made sure to grab one of the heavier books off the shelf while Dudley opened the door.

Dudley entered the room slowly, still staring at all the debris left over from Harry's experiments. "You're not allowed to use magic outside of school," he pointed out.

"They didn't send an owl, or Aunt Petunia would have come yelling by now," Harry said reasonably, sitting down on the bed and starting to eat the soup. He was used to choking down the most disgusting food in the house, but even he was surprised this time—the soup was actually _good._

"No, they didn't," Dudley confirmed, "and that's weird. Why didn't they? I thought they could detect underage magic or whatever."

Harry smiled calmly. "They probably think I just got angry and lost control. I wasn't using a wand."

Dudley's eyes got even bigger. "_Seriously?_" he asked. Harry nodded. "Wow…" Dudley looked suitably impressed. "What's that like?"

Harry sighed. "Frustrating," he admitted. "I guess I burned up all my motivation on the first try, because I've barely gotten it to work at all since." He finished the soup and bit into the sandwich, which turned out to be veggie.

Dudley sat down on the floor and scooped up a pinch of ash from the plate. Rubbing it thoughtfully between his fingers, he asked, "And what's magic like?"

Harry's head jerked up. Swallowing his mouthful of sandwich quickly, he demanded, "What do you mean?" What was magic _like_—magic was something some people had and others didn't. It was something you _used,_ but it wasn't _like_ anything.

"I mean, what's magic like?" Dudley stopped playing with the ash and just looked at his blacked fingers for a moment. "You've told me what these experiments are like. I figure being a wizard would be pretty cool—give you a purpose, something to get you through the crap you go through here. I'm sure getting spells to work would be just about the coolest thing that could ever happen. But what's _magic_ like? What's its nature?"

Harry stared at Dudley, dumbstruck. How was it _possible,_ he wondered, that through all McGonagall and Flitwick's lectures, in all the seven hundred-some pages of _Magical Theory,_ they had never _once_ been told, or even asked, what magic _was?_ How had they never learned what magic was _like?_

"Magic is a tool," he said when at last the silence became unbearable.

"Okay," Dudley said. "What kind?"

Once again, Harry found himself staring cluelessly at his cousin. "What do you mean?" he repeated, wondering if someone—say, Hermione—had used Polyjuice Potion to swap places with Dudley.

"Well, there are different kinds of tools," Dudley explained. "First you've got the carpentry tool kinds of things—hammer, screwdriver, saw. They're dangerous—Piers' dad accidentally broke his thumb with a hammer and lost a finger with a saw—but carpentry-type tools have a single, solid form, and rules for using them. As long as you follow the rules, you'll be fine.

"Then you've got the living tools—oxen that pull plows, horses for riding and for pulling carriages, guard dogs, etc., etc. Your owl—Hedwig, right?—she's one."

"Hedwig is not a _tool,_" Harry snarled.

"'Course she is, at least a little," Dudley replied stubbornly. "She has a job to do—she takes your letters different places. But she's different from the hammer kind of tool, 'cause she has a mind of her own. She can refuse to do what you want. If you're mean to her, she won't be your tool. If you yank on a horse's reins to get it to turn or stop, you'll have to pull harder every time, because the horse will get a hard mouth and won't feel it anymore." If you're nice, and convince a living tool to do what you want without hurting them, they'll learn just as quickly and be happy to do what you want later. See?"

Harry nodded slowly, still irritated about the "tool" comment.

Dudley smiled nostalgically. "Then we have the _really _dangerous tools. These tools don't have just one form. When you try to use them, they fight back. You spend your entire _life_ learning how to use them and no get hurt, and they can _still_ hurt you. I'm talking about fire here—candles for light, campfires for heat and cooking. I'm talking about gas for heating and powering stoves. I'm talking about electricity. It's _lightning,_ and we use it to light up every inch of this house and run our TVs and radios, and pretty much everything else. And _hell_ yeah, I'm talking about the freaking _nuclear power_ in our bombs and power plants.

"So," he finished, "if magic is a tool, what _kind_ of tool is it?"

Harry stared at his cousin for a long moment. "When did the Junior Heavyweight Boxing Champion turn into a philosopher?" he asked finally.

Dudley laughed bitterly. "I'm not allowed to be a philosopher," he said. "Remember? Dad doesn't want 'some swotty little nancy boy for a son.'"

Harry tilted his head to the side, frowning. "Wait," he said slowly. "Are you saying you've _always_ been like this, and I never noticed?"

"I'm saying no such thing," Dudley said evasively, standing up and heading for the door. "Tell me when you've got an answer, 'kay?"

* * *

Harry sat perfectly still for several minutes after Dudley left.

The first thing he had to admit was that Dudley was a good deal smarter than Harry had given him credit for. Harry would love to know why, exactly, his cousin had always let people think he was an idiot.

The second thing he decided was that Dudley was right. He might be, quite literally, playing with fire; but he couldn't be sure. He had no idea what he was reaching into every time he tried a spell. He had been very lucky so far not to get smashed, cut, bitten, or burned.

The third thing he decided was that he needed to keep reading.

* * *

It took Harry three hours to read _Wild Magic,_ the first of Tamora Pierce's _The Immortals_ quartet. By the time he closed the book, he knew what he had to do.

Harry settled into a cross-legged position on the floor and closed his eyes. Then, following the example in the _Circle of Magic_ quartet, he began to breathe to a count of seven.

He counted slowly, about a count per second as he breathed in. his chest and stomach began protesting at about the fourth count; he held his breath for a torturous seven seconds before letting it out gladly. He had _never_ breathed so deeply; he hadn't even known his lungs could _hold_ that much air.

He tried the breathing cycle again, and again he found the stretching in his lungs unbearable. After seven seconds that lasted an eternity, he released the breath as fast as it could escape his mouth.

After that, he spent several minutes simply adjusting to breathing so deeply. When he could finally expand his lungs to full capacity without wincing, he had long since lost the count.

Able at last to breathe and count without pain, Harry began breathing again. He realized that the count was forming the image of a triangle in his mind, and focused only on his breath again; but it was hard to keep his attention there. He visualized his lungs expanding, which turned into a picture from a textbook; this led to thinking about the bloodstained copy of _Defensive Magical Theory, _which now looked like some plain old history book; then he thought of Vernon and felt rage rise up to fill his body, running like acid through his veins—

He was distracted from this train of thought by the scraping sound of food coming though the door.

Harry's eyes flew open so he could glare at the food unhindered. He wasn't hungry—

A loud growl from his stomach silenced that claim.

Suddenly ravenous, Harry grabbed the plate of spaghetti and started wolfing down the food as fast as he could swallow. He glanced over at the clock, and was surprised to find that over half an hour had passed.

When he had finished eating, Harry settled back down into his position by the bed and began meditating again.

The breathing didn't hurt anymore, but he found himself distracted by the taste of leftover food. When he caught himself running his tongue around his mouth to get the rest of the sauce, he stopped in exasperation and waited until he couldn't taste anything anymore.

The next distraction he found was when he realized his foot had fallen asleep. It took ten minutes for him to get the pins and needles to go away, and while he regretted the lost time, there was really no way to focus through the discomfort.

Then, just as he settled back down to begin meditating again, Petunia turned on the radio downstairs.

Harry let out an exasperated growl. _Too many distractions!_ he hissed mentally. _How am I supposed to concentrate?_

_Distractions will never stop._ The answer came to him easily, in a form simpler than words, calming him. _This isn't a perfect world. You have to be stronger than the distractions._

_Stronger how?_

_Now by will, _he answered himself immediately. _Will is the resolution to carry out the decisions of one's thoughts. Meditation is focus by the absence of thought._

And then, again, too fast for conscious thought, things fell into place. _Meditation is focus._

_Then this is meditation, too._

Having come to this realization, and without letting go of the calm that still suffused him, Harry dismissed the question-and-answer session from his mind.

Endless calm stretched before him. There was no light here, and no darkness. He simply was. _Everything_ simply _was._

Harry was enjoying this calm. It was several minutes at least before he was reminded, in that subconscious, wordless language, that he was looking for his magic.

And then he could see.

His magic was bright green, the same green that gleamed in his eyes. He was sunk in a bottomless ocean of green, so deep he could see neither sky nor shore. Around him was a mass of green fire; where it touched his skin it sparked like lightning; he could see currents of running green magic-water; and there were places where it shown like pure light, and others where it swirled like tinted air. It was all magic.

And it was all _his._

_Yours?_ Harry got the impression that the magic was laughing at him. And he understood.

_Ah… Mine, the same way the beating organ in my chest is "my heart." This is the magic that is _part_ of me._

_But what is magic?_

"Essence…"

If Harry had realized that his _magic_ was speaking through _his_ mouth, he probably would have freaked out. As it was, though, he was too caught up in actually getting answers to notice anything else.

_Essence?_ And again, the answer simply came to him. _Yes… Essence. This is that which _is._ This is that which _I am.

Abruptly, a horrid, sour contempt for everything he had been taught filled him. _"Wizardry,"_ he said, aloud and in his mind. _"Wizardry is worthless. It is crippling. It is lily-footing! Wizards spend seven years being _taught_ spellcraft, when we _know_ magecraft! We _learn_ potionmaking, when we _know_ how to derive essences!"_

_Magecraft?_

The answer that came to him this time was based so purely, so fundamentally on _ideas_ and _concepts_ that it could not be reduced to words in any language, living or dead. Harry was entranced by the utter _simplicity_ of it all; it was so absorbing that he did not even hear the sounds from the outside world. But he felt the presence—and anger, a blind rage that dredged up an age-old fear and a newer confidence, almost an insolence, from crevices of habit in his mind that he had never considered as tangible or necessary. He knew, immediately, what was happening and what he would have to do about it.

He opened his eyes.

The room, messy as it was, looked _different_ from before, in a fundamental way. Everything was sharper, clearer; the entire room remained in focus at once, and Harry raised a hand and removed his glasses, knowing, somehow, that he would no longer need them.

But the angry presence was still there. He could taste it, sour and rancid, coming nearer every minute.

Then the door to his room burst open, and Petunia was standing there, bony hands clenched into fists; Vernon was behind here, unsteady on crutches; Dudley looked panicked, and Harry could only focus on what simple idea.

_They're really going to _mean_ this._

* * *

A/N: Okay, that was fun! And there's still work ahead, but there's the beginning of majorly Powerful!Harry.

Anyway…

To update next, I need ten (10) new reviews _for this chapter._ I'm not going to try to define what "counts," so ten people review this chapter, then I put up the next one ASAP.

Just fyi, it's kind of frustrating that a lot of people have this on story alert and don't review. Please, please, if you like it enough to keep track of it or fav it, I appreciate that, but I'd also really, really like to know what you like about it. Even a simple "I like this" or "good chapter" is encouraging.

Please, please review on the way out!


	6. The New Harry

A/N: Hello! I'm back! And I got so many reviews I broke my only-one-update-a-week rule! (Hint: that means I really like the reviews!)

This chapter has a huge HBP compliant chunk (although yes, I do know I messed with the timeline a little), but there are some changes. Okay? But I needed these bits to be a lot like the book because Harry wanted them to be. They made for fun scenes, both now and later.

So, here's the next chapter. I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Did you think I owned Harry Potter? You _did_? I'm flattered, really, but I don't.

* * *

_They're really going to _mean _this._

Long-habitual fear and utterly powerless anger gripped Harry. He couldn't stop them; maybe, if he was lucky, he could out-fight Petunia; and Vernon was weakened from their last fight; but what if they told Dudley to fight for them—who would he choose…?

Through the anger and fear that still boiled in his blood, a familiar, insistent calm suffused Harry. He still felt anger; but the anger he felt was no longer important. What was important was the _here_ and _now,_ and what he was going to do about it.

Harry rose to his feet slowly. "Get out," he commanded.

Petunia took a step forward, ignoring his words. "You tried to _kill_ my husband, you little brat!"

"Did I fail?" Harry asked coolly. "Pity. In any case, he would have done the same to me. I believe I told you to leave?"

Petunia raised a hand to strike him. Harry's hand shot up, and Petunia shrieked as his nails dug deep green crescents into her skin.

"Do. Not. Touch. Me." Harry's voice was low and furious. He raised his free hand and thrust it, palm-first, into Petunia's chest. He could feel his essence, his magic, shoving through his hand against her, and Petunia flew backwards across the room, slamming into Vernon and sending both of them crashing down the stairs.

Dudley stared at Harry, wide-eyed and fearful.

Harry, for his part, was surveying his left hand. Petunia's blood stained his nails, but a flick of his wrist scattered the drops.

"What… How did you _do_ that?" Dudley whispered.

Harry smiled, green eyes gleaming. "Magecraft," he said simply.

"Uh-huh," Dudley said shakily. "Won't your Ministry be ticked about that? I mean, how many times can they think you just 'lost control'?"

"Oh, they'd be furious," Harry said, smile turning wicked. "But magecraft is too different from their clumsy magic for them to detect it. The only way they'll find out about this is if I tell them. And I can assure you, that's one thing I _won't_ be doing."

"I see." Dudley looked severely disturbed by now. "So, does that mean you have an answer?"

Harry stopped. "I have an answer," he said slowly, "but I… I can't _tell _you. It's not worded, magic." He looked at Dudley and saw, with some surprise, that he could _see_ Dudley's essence. It was pale blue, a perfect cloud that stayed just inches from his cousin's skin. And his magic informed him that this was the difference between wizard's and Muggles—a wizard's essence was reactive. When the wizard was angry, his essence raged and stormed, throwing things about in a similar fury; and they had learned to imitate this, to a degree, in their pathetic "wizardry."

But the power he felt was fading. He could feel his essence retreating, twisting back into the tightly contained cloud that was so similar to a Muggle's "aura." He could still see clearly, but he was blind to essence; the focus of the room was once again limited.

"It's leaving…" he whispered. As he said the words aloud, he began to panic. His magic had just saved his _life—_he couldn't let it leave! But there was the reassurance—it would be _so easy_ to get back his magic, if he really wanted to…

Harry turned back to the bed. "I know what I have to do," he said.

"Harry…" Dudley protested.

Harry looked back over his shoulder, eyes cold. "Don't try to stop me," he warned.

"I wasn't going to," Dudley said hurriedly, "but… don't you think you should maybe eat something first? You've been out of it for over a day."

Harry froze. A _day?_ From some distant corner of his mind, his essence showed him the time distortion that occurred within such a place as his mind… but a _day?_ As in twenty-four _hours?_

Maybe he _should_ eat something, at least.

* * *

Two weeks later, Harry was waiting.

His eyes were closed, his legs were crossed, and his hands had fallen automatically to rest on his knees. He was visiting his essence, and this time, as he had been doing for the past week or so, he was drawing his essence into himself. It wasn't that different from what the mages had done in the _Circle of Magic_ quartet, but they had used an object as their focus for compressing their magic. In Harry's case, he was using his body.

He had learned, with some guiding from his essence, to bring his magic into his eyes and just let it settle behind them. From there, without any prompting, his magic had spread to fill his eyes and give him, permanently, the "essence vision" he'd had for those moments weeks ago. It aided his perception quite a bit, although sometimes it became so bright that he had learned to dampen it to only show the more powerful essences.

Then he moved to his mind. Taking his cue from _Wild Magic,_ he began organizing everything. His essence was very useful for this sorting. Now everything had its own space: childhood memories; class information; personal data for Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, each Dursley, every one of his teachers, the Hogwarts ghosts… His thoughts were much clearer and sharper when everything was right where he needed it to be. When he learned something new about magic and magecraft, he didn't even have to think about memorizing it anymore; it just slid into the proper slot in his mind.

But an organized mind was little use if what he _knew_—his memories—and what he _wanted to know_—his essence—were so clearly separated, so he had built a House of the Mind. It really only took the shape of one room, with information stored in neat boxes and file cabinets and bookcases and everything else Harry associated with organized information storage. The walls, ceiling, and floor of this room were his essence. He no longer swam in his magic, at least, not unless he consciously chose to do so. His essence was all around him, and could give him information as he needed it.

Harder to do was to open his eyes and remain in that room. It soon proved impossible to focus simultaneously on the outside world and the one in his mind, so he came up with another way to remain in touch with his magic. That was what he was working on now.

Slowly, carefully, he drew a single tendril of green lightning from the room and slipped through the wall, falling into what his essence termed his "consciousness of body." All through his body ran nerves, veins, muscles, bones… all physical structures, devoid of power. That was what he was going to fix, here and now.

He traveled slowly down his body until he came to his heart. Slowly, carefully, drawing on knowledge held by both his magic and his body, he found the aorta, emerging from his heart to carry blood all through his body, and brought the magic into it. The magic was whisked along with the blood that flowed through the artery, and, attached to it, more magic followed.

Harry remained there, ensuring that magic continued to feed into his bloodstream until he—quite literally—had essence running through all his veins. As his body told him and his essence confirmed, there was no inch of his body that was not reached by his bloodstream. Within a day, his magic would be evenly dispersed and would readily jump to his every command.

He heard movement downstairs. Petunia had returned from the hospital only two days after entering it—Harry suspected she had latent magic that sped up her healing process, even if she couldn't cast spells—although Vernon had gotten a major concussion and several broken ribs and would be in the hospital for many more days as the doctors tried to determine if anything else was wrong.

Dudley had come to his rescue with the cops. He had told them that Petunia had tried to hit Harry, that Harry had pushed her away, and that Vernon, already unsteady, had gone crashing down the stairs. Harry found it amusing that the only things wrong with Dudley's story were the lack of an explanation for the cut on Petunia's wrist—which, as the doctors had told them, had nearly severed a major nerve and had been unusually difficult to stop bleeding—and the omission of the magic involved.

There was a voice at the door. As the corresponding file in his mind told him, it was Dumbledore.

_The old man really came,_ Harry thought amusedly as he withdrew back into his House of the Mind and opened his eyes. _I didn't think he would._

Harry rose and looked around his room. Despite the fact that he had made no move to pack after receiving the letter, his room was almost pristine—he and Dudley had cleared away the debris from his "experiments", and he only had to pack Hermione's books and a few Muggle clothes.

He could do that later.

Harry was halfway to the door when something slid out of its position in his mind and warned him—he wasn't wearing his glasses anymore. Dumbledore was sure to notice that.

Harry could have hit himself. How could he have been so _stupid?_ The glasses weren't just _important,_ they were _necessary!_ If anyone but Dudley saw that Harry didn't need his glasses anymore—and Dudley already knew the reason behind that—they would ask questions that Harry wasn't ready to answer just yet. So he quickly grabbed the eyewear in question off his nightstand and slid the glasses onto his face, letting his essence un-fix his vision as he did.

Dumbledore was by the door, and Petunia was staring at the man with an odd look on her face. Dudley, just behind her, looked questioningly at Harry. Harry looked back at his cousin and shrugged—at this point, Dumbledore could either fix this or wreck it. He could either make up for his mistake with the prophecy or make another, completely new, mistake that there would be no coming back from.

* * *

By the time they left the Dursleys, he thought he knew which one Dumbledore was aiming for.

Dumbledore took him to meet an old colleague, to bring him out of retirement. Harry found the long walk incredibly boring, and was not at all surprised to find his mind and essence fall to working out how he might manage Apparition through Anti-Apparition wards. Letting the problem drift to the back of his mind, he followed Dumbledore into the house.

The door hanging off its hinges was a big clue that something had happened, but once Harry entered the room he was almost amused. An enormous armchair in one corner of the room displayed an altogether human essence. Fighting back a smile, Harry said worriedly, "Maybe—maybe there was a fight, and they dragged him off." _God, why does that sound so sarcastic in my head?_

Dumbledore, however, found the human-turned-armchair quickly enough. Harry almost laughed aloud at the sight of the round old man rubbing his stomach and complaining.

The other old man, the one who had escorted Harry here, was apparently determined to make Harry do his work for him, as he put Harry in the center of the room and left as quickly as possible. Watching the new man—Slughorn—Harry wondered what was so important about getting this man back to Hogwarts.

"Don't think I don't know why he's brought you," Slughorn told Harry abruptly.

"So you figured that out, huh? Well, you're not an idiot," Harry said, not bothering with tact. "Not exactly Defense teacher material, though. Hiding instead of fighting might be a good strategy if you can do it, but if you can't even manage to pay attention to your Intruder Charm…" He let the sentence hang and moved on. "So, what other class needs teaching now?"

Slughorn's eyebrows rose about a full inch. "You mean he didn't _tell_ you?" he asked incredulously. "I taught Potions."

_Potions?_ Harry wondered. Then what would Snape…?

The pieces abruptly fell into place. Snape wanted the Defense teaching post. Dumbledore wanted Slughorn to come back and teach Snape's class.

Dumbledore was finally giving Snape what he wanted.

Harry wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"You look very like your father," Slughorn commented.

"Yeah, I know; but I've got my mother's eyes," Harry recited, resisting the urge to roll said features or add _blah, blah, blah_.

"Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother. Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too."

"Which was your House?" he asked, trying to sound as though the question was completely inconsequential. Which, he realized, it was—he was more preoccupied with figuring out how much force it would take behind a magecraft spell to clean and fix the room the way Slughorn and Dumbledore had done.

"I was Head of Slytherin."

A smile tugged at the corner of Harry's mouth. "What is it with Slytherin Heads and Potions Masters?" he asked.

Slughorn drew himself up proudly. "Salazar Slytherin," he said, "was the greatest potion-maker the world has ever, or will ever, see."

They continued to talk aimlessly. Harry waited patiently until he found a convenient opening in the conversation, at which he finally said what Dumbledore wanted him to say.

"You could come back," he said softly. "You could have everything back that you wanted—well, except being Head of Slytherin; they've got a new one—but there's no reason why you wouldn't want to go back. I mean, everyone's safe at Hogwarts; isn't Dumbledore supposed to be the only one Voldemort was ever afraid of?"

It probably wasn't as effective as it could have been if he'd just let something slip out, but he was tired of Dumbledore's games and he wanted to get out of there.

Slughorn caved like a house of cards. Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes at the man's predictability as he left with Dumbledore and headed to the Burrow.

* * *

"Harry," Dumbledore told him as they walked out of the wards around Slughorn's house, "I think you should continue your Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape."

Apparently Harry wasn't as good an actor as he'd thought. "Why?" he asked, forcing a whining note into his voice. "They didn't work last year, so why should it be any different this time?"

Dumbledore looked down at Harry. "After last year, I'm sure you see the importance of these lessons."

He certainly did—if Snape saw the _organization_ his mind had undergone, and the things Harry had been learning over the summer, he would tell Dumbledore, and that would not turn out well for Harry.

"Yes, sir," he said quietly.

"Now, if you would take my arm…" Harry did so, and after a moment more of that horrible squeezing sensation, they emerged outside the Burrow.

Mrs. Weasley was exactly as he remembered her. She took charge of Harry, ushered him into the kitchen, and served him a large bowl of extremely hot onion soup. Harry adjusted his body so his mouth could handle the temperature before starting to eat.

The new Minister of Magic—Harry hadn't even known there _was_ a new Minister of Magic—sounded very different from the last one. For one thing, this Minister had given Arthur Weasley a more important job. Some idly strategic part of his mind informed Harry that this could be a blatant attempt to get into Harry's good graces; but why worry about that now? He was bored. Not tired—with magic running through his body so completely, his essence doubted he would ever get tired again—but he didn't want to be around people anymore. He needed to keep reading and find some way of shielding his mind without letting Snape know he was doing it.

Which was exactly what he did when Mrs. Weasley finally sent him upstairs. His trunk was sitting at the end of the bed, so he opened it, took out two more of Tamora Pierce's books, and began reading.

* * *

He had finished the books and was thinking about their contents, altering a few abilities here and there to suit his purposes, when there was a noise on the stairs.

Guessing in a split second who it was, Harry dove under the covers of the bed and pretended to be asleep. Sure enough, a moment later the door burst open and a familiar voice shouted, "You should have told us you were here!"

Harry opened his eyes and rolled over, feigning tiredness but still managing to avoid Ron's friendly slap. Sitting up (and remembering to put on his glasses), he said, "I thought you would rather sleep. Was I wrong?"

Ron grinned sheepishly. Behind him stood Hermione, who was watching Harry with a smile on her face but nervous anticipation in her eyes. Harry wondered what that was about and was informed by one of his newer memories that he had sent Hermione a letter the day after putting Petunia and Vernon in the hospital. Of course that would have worried her. He'd gone from mourning to curious in less than two weeks.

"Did I miss breakfast?" Harry asked. He knew he had—he had smelled the food all the way up in his room, but he hadn't felt like going downstairs.

"Mum's bringing something up," Ron reassured him. Harry smiled gratefully.

Ginny came in at that point, and a moment later a beautiful, willowy blonde woman followed her in, carrying a heavily laden tray.

Harry stared. The file on this woman had slid quickly out of its slot in his mind and was running through everything he knew about her—he recognized her, but what was she doing _here?_

"Hello, Fleur," he said, and was surprised to find her name come out in an accent not altogether different from hers.

"'Arry!" Fleur greeted him, setting the tray on his lap and giving him a kiss on each cheek. "Eet is so good to see you! Eet 'as been too long!"

Mrs. Weasley looked annoyed where she stood in the doorway. "There was no need to bring up the tray; I was just about to do it myself!"

"Eet was no trouble," Fleur assured her. "I 'ave not seen 'Arry in so long! You remember my seester, Gabrielle?" she said, addressing Harry now. "She never stops talking about you. She will be delighted to see you again."

Somehow, Harry didn't think the Weasley family would have survived the arrival of _two_ part-veela girls. "When will I see her?" he asked.

"Next summer, of course, when…" Fleur trailed off. "But you did not tell him?" she asked Mrs. Weasley.

Mrs. Weasley muttered something about "not having gotten around to it just yet."

Fleur turned back to Harry. Such joy was written on her face it lit up the essence which had not previously been powerful enough to show up in Harry's dampened vision; bright and silvery, it only seemed to make her more beautiful. "Bill and I are going to be married!"

Harry smiled. Somehow, he was not altogether surprised; he could remember the other Weasleys joking about Bill and Fleur's relationship the previous year. "Really? That's amazing. Congratulations!"

Fleur gave him another kiss and left the room.

Mrs. Weasley made a disapproving noise.

"Mum hates her," Ginny told Harry in a confidential tone.

"I do _not_ hate her!" Mrs. Weasley protested. "I just think they've rushed this engagement!"

"Because Voldemort's back," Harry said quietly. He understood the philosophy; it was easy enough to say "live each day as if it were your last," but when there was a good chance it could really be, it upped the ante quite a bit.

Mrs. Weasley nodded somewhat sadly.

She left shortly after that, and the others began filling Harry in on what had been going on.

"Mum keeps trying to get Tonks to come 'round for dinner," Ron told him. "I think she's hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead, but if you ask me, it's a lost cause. I mean, Tonks is okay-looking when she isn't doing stupid things to her hair and her nose, but—"

"She's a damn sight nicer than _Phlegm,_" said Ginny.

"And she's more intelligent, she's an Auror!" Hermione joined in.

"Fleur's not stupid," Harry pointed out. "She was her school's Triwizard Champion, remember?"

"Not you, too!" Ginny moaned. "I suppose you like the way Phlegm says ''Arry,' do you?"

Harry's hand slammed onto the tray so hard all the silverware jumped several inches. "Do I have to have a crush on her to give her the credit she deserves?" he hissed. "Bill's not stupid, either, _Ginevra._ As I remember, you used to look up to him. Why can't you accept that he sees something about Fleur that you don't?"

All three of the others were staring at Harry now, wide-eyed.

Mrs. Weasley chose that moment to poke her head in the door. "Ginny, Ron, Hermione, would you mind coming downstairs and helping me with lunch?" she asked.

"I have something I need to discuss with Harry," Hermione answered immediately, not removing her eyes from the boy, even as Ron and Ginny followed their mother out of the room.

Harry almost smiled. So she had decided to take the initiative, had she?

Hermione closed the door behind the others and turned back to Harry.

* * *

A/N: Tee hee! Was that enough of a cliffie for everyone? Too much? Am I just being evil now?

I'm not sure how HBP compliant this story will be, but as this Harry wouldn't go along with half of the plot, I'm pretty sure this is about where the compliance ends. Most events will be very, very different from here on out.

Oh, and I got some complaints last chapter, so let me explain this:

If you check my profile, you will see that I have seven—technically eight—stories that are NOT on hiatus, not even counting this one. This one is popular, and it's staying pretty easy to write, so I think I'll keep updating for a while, but here's the thing: I HAVE A LOT OF FICS THAT I HAVEN'T EVEN POSTED.

Basically, which one I work on depends mainly on which one I feel like working on at the time, but if there's no interest from other people, I take that as an excuse to lose interest myself. If people review, well, that's a good way to guilt me into looking for more inspiration.

Here's the thing (I feel like Monk): I do want this story to keep going. Reviews are the encouragement that make me go back and keep writing and thinking and staying interested.

(Wow, that sounded more like blackmail than just saying "ten reviews or no update." Oops. It wasn't supposed to.)

So please review, and I'll start working on the next chapter right away!


	7. Soul Viewing

A/N: Hello, all! Thanks so much to all my reviewers! I appreciate them all. Really! They're the reason I'm updating again now! (I reached one of these hard sections where I know what I want to happen a few chapters down the road, but the people aren't cooperating in the _here_ and _now._ This is usually where I give up. Thanks to all you reviewers, I'm sticking with this one.)

I got complimented for the Ginny bashing last chapter. I'm not taking it back… I'm just saying that, like most of this fic, it happened without any real planning. The people I bash and the ones I cheer on may change from chapter to chapter.

I hate how short this chapter is. (It's not as short as the first two chapters, but it's not as long as the last one…) Really, I apologize. But it's one of those short-chapter-now or long-chapter-in-an-equally-long-time deals, so I hope this is enough for now.

Oh, and here's something else: I got a review for the first chapter that said "no slash" (only in a lot more words… and a lot nicer). Now, here's the deal. This isn't a slash fic. Look at the genres; romance isn't there at all. If there is going to be a major ship, it won't be for a long time, and it will be het. That's just the way things are turning out. But in this chapter, we learn that someone (who, admittedly, wasn't originally) is gay. There may be mentions of this person dating people of the same gender later in the story. I took care to make it sound reasonable, and even my friend who hates fanfic authors changing people's orientation thought it was reasonable. (Wow, that was a long note. To summarize: Gay person. No major pairings, little or no actual slash.)

So, now that I've warned you, please don't review saying, "That person isn't gay! Omgz didn't you read the books?" Yes, I did read the books. Keep in mind, this is pre-HBP, and I get to decide how compliant it is. I choose to change this much. I also choose to be very careful about changing it, so that it looks plausible.

I think you'll find out everything else in the chapter.

Wow, this is a long A/N. Oh, well. On with the fic (finally)!

* * *

"Harry…" Hermione hesitated. Finally she tried again. "Harry, look. Those books… They're _fiction._ The people who wrote them didn't have any _idea_ what magic can do. I gave them to you so you could learn about _how_ it works, not _what it does!_ Magic has _limits,_ Harry! You can't just bend the world around your little finger!"

_Not yet,_ Harry thought. Aloud he said only, "Judging by your vehement denial… I'd say you're _not_ a mage." A mage would be only too eager to help a new mage; Harry already had that instinct, and he hadn't even had a reason to use it.

Hermione blanched. "What… _No._ Harry… you _can't _be serious…"

"Of course I'm not," Harry assured her. "It's like you said—that would be impossible."

Hermione didn't look convinced.

Curiosity sparked, Harry released the dampeners on his essence vision so he could see Hermione's magic. He was surprised by what he saw. As his own magic informed him, everything about Hermione's aura was _wrong._ It was wrong, whether she was a witch or a mage—the shape, the size… the _focus…_

Harry looked away quickly. "So, no magecraft," he commented tonelessly. "Just every kind of wandless, wordless wizardry there is."

Hermione took a step back. "How…?"

"I'm impressed, though," Harry went on, ignoring her. "I mean, learning Apparition without getting caught must be hard enough… but just how far into the Restricted Section did you have to go to find books on Animagus transformation? Or _Legilimency?_"

He turned back to Hermione, careful not to meet her eyes. "Just how long ago did you decide that rules and laws were _beneath_ you, _Miss Granger?_"

His heart was pounding harder and faster in his anger, and his consciousness of body told him that it would increase the circulation of magic as well as blood throughout his body. Pressure was building in his hands, in his eyes… He pulled off his glasses; it was giving him a headache to keep his vision so poor.

"That's not fair." Hermione's voice shook.

"Isn't it?" That was when Harry made the mistake of looking back into Hermione's eyes.

Snape hadn't lied—the human mind was not a book to be read. What he hadn't bothered to mention, though, was that the _soul_ was even more of a puzzle. Harry met Hermione's eyes and found himself falling endlessly through memories, until the images began to form something recognizable.

A battle.

Hermione was fighting.

The Sorting Hat had never offered her Gryffindor. It had offered her Ravenclaw… or _Slytherin._ Upon hearing that, Hermione had immediately decided to be a better person, one who could live without regret. That was the time, down to the second, when she had made the change from justifying the death of her uncle to recognizing her mistake and vowing never to make it again. That was when the Sorting Hat had placed her in Gryffindor.

But Hermione wanted so much to _know._ She wanted to learn everything, and she didn't much care to what use she put her knowledge. She wanted to advance the world, but she didn't worry as much about its betterment. The cursed parchment in their fifth year hadn't been her first experiment, and it had by no means been the first that fell outside of the Light.

In fourth year, Hermione had found someone who was like her. Viktor Krum was brilliant, ambitious, and ruthless. It had been no accident that he had decided to sit with the Slytherins. When he met Hermione, they both saw something they liked. Krum saw it more clearly, and set about teaching Hermione how he had gained that skill. That was how she had learned Legilimency.

He also taught her Apparition, on Hogsmeade trips and aboard the Durmstrang ship. Hermione picked up both arts easily. It had been her idea to start looking into Animagus transformations. Krum had been careful, during the second task, not to show that he could transform fully into a shark with minimal effort. Hermione had watched him and smiled as the great golden eagle that her aura and Animagus form both mimicked glowed with pride.

The Yule Ball had been the first time when she had questioned her decision. Ron had quite clearly been upset about Hermione dating—yes, she had considered it dating, and yes, they had kissed (often)—and she had taken the opportunity to look into his mind and see why. When she did, she was shocked.

For three years, she had liked Ron.

Now she learned that he liked her in return.

It was strange how _wanting_ could be so much more pleasant than _having._ As soon as Hermione knew she could have the person she had wanted since first year, her standards began to rise. Ron turned up his nose at S.P.E.W. Viktor encouraged her. His family had a house-elf. Every generation, they freed the elf and told him or her that if they wanted to serve the Krum family, they were welcome to return, but they were no longer bound to the house. They treated their elves as well as they did each other.

Viktor had an uncle who was a werewolf. He had worked for half a year to learn to make the Wolfsbane Potion as soon as he learned about it. Ron learned that Professor Lupin was a werewolf and immediately forgot that he liked the man.

Viktor had a morality system that took more than a two-word dichotomy to define. Ron didn't.

But at the end of the year, Voldemort had returned. In fear for her (for lack of a better word) Gryffindor-ness, Hermione had broken things off with Viktor and turned to helping Harry and the Order with the war.

Fifth year had been harder. Between herself and Viktor, Hermione had learned or invented a number of spells, jinxes, and curses she could have used to punish Umbridge or the Ministry for their lies. She could have sent up the Dark Mark; she had taught herself the spell, and it would have at least made a dent in the people's unwavering belief in the Ministry's lies. But through the whole year, the jinxed paper had been the only thing she had allowed herself.

Harry was her reason. Not her reason for being, but her reason for being _Light._ As long as Harry continued to fight against Voldemort, she would continue fighting the Slytherin side of her. If he changed—if he became Gray, or worse still, Dark—she would give up. She _wanted_ to use what she had learned. Harry was the only reason she held back.

Harry tore his eyes away from Hermione's. His hands flew up to shield the sides of his head so that there would be no risk of seeing her from the corner of his eye; his nails dug in so hard he almost bled. _What the hell is happening?_ he demanded of his magic. Something he had read in _The Dresden Files_ flickered at the edge of his mind, but his panic kept it just out of reach.

"Harry?" Hermione was concerned. "What's wrong?"

She hadn't seen… She didn't know that he knew…

In an utter panic, so far gone he could no longer hear the voice of his magic explaining things, Harry yanked open the door and ran down the stairs, narrowly missing death by a broken neck on several steps.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and stood panting, trying to get the images out of his head. He had been in such a rush to learn… and now he knew what he hadn't bothered to realize before—

_There were things he didn't want to know._

"Harry?" Instinctively, Harry looked up into concerned brown eyes—and plunged into the depths of Ginny's soul.

Ginny was fighting, too.

She was fighting something about herself that was more unmoving than a mountain.

From the time she was a baby, she had heard stories of how Harry Potter, through his goodness and greatness, had saved the wizarding world from the evil that was Lord Voldemort. When she was seven, she had decided that she was in love with Harry Potter.

Then she had met him.

For a year or so, her crush on the legend had survived; but sooner or later, it was inevitable that the real person would fail to measure up. When that happened, she had talked to Hermione and obtained the older girl's advice: start looking at other boys, ones in her own year. Hermione had continued on with her life after that, oblivious to the fact that Ginny was no longer interested in Harry.

It didn't take long for her to realize that none of the other boys were attractive. A few of them held some interest for her, so she tried dating them, but inevitable, relentlessly, the relationships turned to purely physical, empty motions, until Ginny was left looking for an excuse—any excuse—to break it off.

Then Fleur came along, and any illusions Ginny was still under about herself were blown apart. When Fleur walked by, Ron's head turned. Hermione's didn't. Ginny's _did._

Since that realization, Ginny had been fighting her own sexuality. Needless to say, she had been losing.

Harry blinked fiercely, looking away.

"Harry?" Ginny repeated. "Harry, are you all right?"

Harry looked back at Ginny. He was careful this time; he looked at her arm and followed the line up until he was focused on her face without quite meeting her eyes. "I'm fine," he told her. "It's nothing."

From what he could see, Ginny was as skeptical as Hermione had been about his _'not'_-magecraft. He stopped that train of thought there—he didn't want to think about the images he'd seen in Hermione's mind (her _soul,_ his magic corrected him—apparently he'd calmed down enough to hear it again). Mumbling some half-hearted excuse to Ginny, he climbed the stairs to his room again.

* * *

Hermione had mercifully left since Harry had done so. It occurred to him that he had no idea how long it took to look through a person's soul. He could have been zoned out for anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes; and for all he knew, Ginny could have been paralyzed for the same time. Certainly he had been the one to look away in both cases. The time warp in a person's mind or soul was so unpredictable even his magic didn't know how long a soul viewing would take.

Harry continued thinking about anything else that came to mind, but finally, he ran out of ways to distract himself from what he had seen.

He didn't know what to think now. His images of Hermione and Ginny had been torn down in a single afternoon. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't go downstairs; he couldn't face everyone. He knew now that every one of his friends had a secret that he didn't want or need to know, and he couldn't risk making eye contact with anyone until he found a way to stop himself from seeing into their souls.

In the end, he did the only thing he could do: He wrote to Dudley.

_Dudley,_

_I've gotten better at magecraft, but I just learned some things about my friends I didn't want to know. Big things. I don't know if I can look at them the same way anymore, and I don't want it to happen again. What am I supposed to do?_

_Harry_

He tied the small scroll to Hedwig's leg and sent her back to Number Four, Privet Drive. When he could no longer see her, he turned back to the bed. As long as he was trapped in self-imposed exile up here, he might as well start working on Occlumency.

* * *

Harry had finished _Trickster's Queen_ and started working on defending his mind when a memory flashed in front of his eyes. He stopped what he was doing, growing still as stone in half a second.

It had been in the _Circle of Magic_ quartet… in _Tris's Book…_ Nico had done something… It had been useful in that situation for an entirely different purpose… To suit Harry's purpose, he would need to modify it… But…

It could be done.

His magic could instruct him. He could manage this, and once he had, he could descend back among other people, fearless again. He didn't need to see these things… The question wasn't, _Could it be done?_ The only important question was, _How long will it take?_

If it would take more than a month, he should get started on his defenses first… Although, it would be entirely pointless to have mental defenses get blown away by a flood of knowledge whenever he met Snape's eyes…

The dilemma took several minutes to sort out. Finally, his magic came up with the perfect solution: while he worked on setting up defenses, he would allow his subconscious, aided by his magic, to work out how to modify the spell from _Tris's Book._

Harry settled back, took up parchment and a pencil, and began working. This particular "spell" would take a lot more than just instinct.

He needed Snape to see what he expected to see when he looked in his head: Gryffindor golden boy, James Potter's son. For all Harry cared, the man could see the arrogant brat he'd insisted on seeing for the past five years; it didn't matter, just so long as he _didn't_ see the things Harry wanted hidden.

This was going to be a long-term project. Harry almost laughed as he realized just how much he was getting into.

* * *

A/N: So? Did you like it? Should I scrap it and start over? Should I give up writing forever? (Did that sound too much like a threat?) Please review, and I'll update ASAP!


	8. Green Fire

A/N: Hello all! Sorry about the slow update! (That should not have been as cool to say as it was… It's only been three weeks… Hee!)

Anyway, here's the next chapter. Sorry it's short… it wanted to end there.

Disclaimer: Ahem… HARRY POTTER BELONGS TO ME! Yeah, totally. Absolutely. Not.

Here we go!

* * *

_Harry,_

_I'm going to base the rest of this letter on the assumption that these people don't know what you've found out._

_If what you learned is so incredibly insane that you can't handle having the same relationship with them, then you should confront them, or end your friendship with them. Change your relationship with them the way you need it to change. But if you can handle being the same person around them, if you can have the same relationship with them, then it's not worth ruining a friendship that's lasted this long._

_That's just my advice, but you said that's what you wanted, so here._

_-Dudley_

Harry stared at the words, letting them settle in their place in his mind, fully memorized and understood, before he did anything else. These words were important. They contained the answer to his relations with Hermione and Ginny from then on.

Finally Harry fell back on the bed and closed his eyes, calling on his essence to help him sort this out. Did he want to have the same relationship with those two?

Ginny had always had a crush on him. That was part of his definition of her. It also had made being around her more than a little awkward. Now she didn't have a crush on him anymore. Instead, she liked girls. What did that mean for them as friends?

It would be easier, for one thing. Did it mean anything else?

Placing that question in the back of his mind, Harry moved on.

Hermione was the perfect Gryffindor. She was the Golden Girl, brilliant, perfect, so impossibly _Light…_

But she wasn't.

She was Dark. Her worldview was pure, unadulterated Ravenclaw: "Learn everything you can; use everything you learn."

This thought immediately took Harry's focus off on a tangent while he let his essence sort out the Hermione issue. If he knew the Ravenclaw worldview, what were the worldviews of the other Houses?

Gryffindor's worldview, he thought with scorn, was "Never back down from a challenge. Ignore the fact that refusing to run because you're afraid of what your friends will say is another form of cowardice; just keep fighting no matter what happens." A little wordier than Ravenclaw's, but fairly accurate.

Next, Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff's worldview was probably something along the lines of "Loyalty must be earned. Once it has been earned, it is that person's due." Wow, that sounded formal. But it also sounded right, so Harry let it be.

Slytherin was hardest. Finally, after many false starts, Harry decided that their worldview was "Help others only to gain allies, do 'right' only to stay out of jail, and do nothing that does not help you achieve your own goals."

At about that time, his essence presented the answers to his dilemmas.

It didn't matter how he felt about the girls now. They were façades only; and the information he had gained only existed as a tenuous, barely tolerated threat to that façade.

He needed to make something _change_ in order to find out what they were like.

Hermione would change on her own. The stress of maintaining her image of the Golden Girl when everything about her told her that it was fundamentally _wrong_ would snap eventually. All he had to do was wait.

Ginny was a little harder. She was determined to keep her own façade up, even to the point of deluding herself. To make something change, Harry would have to shake that façade.

That was easy, his essence informed him. All he had to do was…

A knock on the door announced Hermione's presence. Harry smiled to himself and looked over at the girl.

"Yes?" he said sweetly.

Hermione looked like she was steeling herself to talk to him. Finally she announced, "Mrs. Weasley has asked me to tell you that you've been up here for three days, and—and she won't send up any more food. You have to come down to eat it." She said this all in one breath, very quickly.

"Fine," Harry said. "You can go now."

Hermione stared at him. "Aren't you coming down?"

Harry smiled again. "I'm not hungry," he told her, and returned his gaze to the ceiling.

Hermione didn't move. "Harry, you remember how we had that talk about magic having limits?"

_Which it doesn't,_ Harry thought to himself, but answered, "Yeah."

"Well…" Hermione hesitated for a moment, "Your body has limits too. You need to eat, and sleep, and from what I can tell you haven't been doing _either_ of those! Now—now come downstairs and _eat _something!"

Harry stood slowly and turned to face Hermione. Her eyes were very wide—he caught a glimpse of the whites around them before he remembered to divert his attention to the rest of her face.

"I'm not hungry," he repeated. "I don't think I'll ever be hungry again. You can go now."

"Fine," Hermione said. "Mrs. Weasley also wanted me to tell you that we're going to Diagon Alley. Today."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Don't we need our O.W.L.s for that?" he asked.

"They just came," Hermione said. "Now come downstairs." With that, she turned and walked away.

Harry stared after her. He wanted to know what his O.W.L. results were—no matter how much had changed, he needed to know _that._ And if they were going to Diagon Alley, there was a chance he could find something useful for studying magecraft… But he still couldn't meet people's eyes.

At this point his magic came forward, mentioning almost as an afterthought that it had solved the problem of soul sight. Harry listened eagerly to what it told him; this would work, it was just the way he had thought it would work…

He grabbed his glasses off the nightstand and held them loosely in his hands. Green fire raced from his hands around the wire frames. It jumped across the lenses again and again, forming a web so thick it was impossible to see the glass—and then it was gone. The glasses were perfectly normal again, except that now, in Harry's essence vision, they glowed with the green of his magic.

Harry slid the glasses onto his face, glad to be wearing them for the first time in weeks.

Now, it was time to meet the family, so to speak.

* * *

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley looked immensely relieved to see him. "It's about time you came down! Sit down and have something to eat!"

Harry obeyed, sitting down at the table and surveying the faces around the room with one quick sweep of his eyes. Besides Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Fleur were present. Fleur looked radiant to see Harry; once again being overly helpful, she took the plate from Mrs. Weasley without asking or being asked and set it in front of him.

"Thank you," Harry said, smiling for real. "Mrs. Weasley," he said, making sure he had the proper hesitance in his tone at asking about something so pivotal, "Hermione said our O.W.L.s came?"

"Oh, yes, right." Mrs. Weasley appeared to have honestly forgotten the existence of the letter until he mentioned it. "Here you are," she said, handing him a thick envelope.

Harry opened it and took out his results sheet as he took his first bite of bacon. He froze for a long moment as the taste of the meat rushed through him. Of the meals sent up to him over the past three days, Harry had given the meat to Hedwig and thrown the rest away; and apparently, in that time, he had also forgotten just how _good_ Mrs. Weasley's cooking tasted.

Still savoring the taste of the bacon, Harry returned to studying his test scores. He had achieved the grades he needed in everything… except Potions. And Potions was the one thing that his essence couldn't just make easier. It could enhance the ingredients, or the properties of a completed potion, but it couldn't make the potions for him.

Although, it suggested, if he really did want to join a group of self-righteous, self-superior _wizards_ (for what felt like the millionth time, he was flooded with contempt at the word), there might still be a way. Slughorn was going to be the Potions master this year, not Snape. Considering what Dumbledore had said, about Slughorn liking surrounding himself with the influential and the powerful, it was more than likely that he would be eager to allow the 'Chosen One,' as Hermione's memories said the _Daily Prophet _had taken to calling him, into his classes.

Maybe he'd get the required Potions book, just in case…

* * *

After stopping at Gringotts to refill his money bag (and being amazed at the number of spells worked into the coins, now visible to his eyes), Harry quickly grew bored with the shopping trip.

The problem was, there wasn't anyone who still knew magecraft _existed._ As his magic pointed out, it was such a forgotten art it was pretty much expressly forbidden.

Which led to the obvious conclusion…

Knockturn Alley.

If he wanted to look for something forbidden, he would have to leave Diagon.

The Weasleys were obviously not going to _give _him an opportunity to do this. He would have to _make_ one.

His chance came sooner than he would have thought. When they went into Flourish and Blotts, Hermione's attention, originally focused unwaveringly on Harry, was completely diverted to a stack of very thick, very old-looking books. Ron went to try to convince her to look at something else (and to get his own school books), Mr. and Mrs. Weasley started haggling for the books they would all need, and Harry ducked out the door unnoticed, crossed the street, and slipped through a back way to Knockturn Alley.

In the shadow between the buildings, he brushed a hand over his face and let his magic alter his appearance. It was a strange feeling to have the scar fade from view; to feel his eyes darken to a color that was more blue than green; to feel his hair lighten to brown and shorten so that he was completely unrecognizable.

Knockturn Alley had changed since Harry had last seen it. No one was afraid any longer to be associated with the Dark Arts; apparently, anyone who had been afraid of being labeled a Death Eater had relaxed since Voldemort had returned… or people were no longer afraid of being betrayed… or maybe with Voldemort's rise, people just felt easier about giving into temptation and allying themselves with the Dark.

Harry saw families shopping with expressions not entirely unlike those of similar shopping groups in Diagon Alley. The difference was that shoppers here wore small smiles, like they were sharing a private joke; and where the Diagon shoppers had become more withdrawn and hurried after Voldemort's return, these people now stopped to greet each other. Harry glimpsed familiar faces all around him: Draco Malfoy, looking both arrogant and nervous at the same time, walking—no, _strutting_—into Borgin and Burkes; haughty Bellatrix Lestrange, who walked right by the new Harry without a second glance (Harry looked back at her for a moment, but his magic reminded him of their purpose here and he returned his gaze to the alley ahead of him); Severus Snape coming out of a shadier apothecary than the one in Diagon Alley—the sight of him should not have surprised Harry nearly as much as it did—

All further recognitions were eclipsed by the notice of a bookstore beside him.

The store was called Blood Ink, and Harry recognized at once where it had gotten its name: the same sharpened black quills that Dolores Umbridge had loved so much hung suspended in the air behind the glass. But the important thing was the displays. Books were stacked in the window, books that were just as diverse, and certainly more interesting, than the ones displayed at Flourish and Blotts. Harry smiled at the sight, recognizing what was probably his best chance to find any books on magecraft, and stepped into the store.

The assistant manager hurried up to him. "What do you need?" he asked. There was none of the respect in his tone that Diagon shopkeepers had; Harry's opinion of Knockturn Alley rose several notches.

"I'm looking for books on magic," he said. Fixing his eyes on the shopkeeper's, he clarified, "But not _wizardry._"

That was all he needed to say: if this person had what Harry needed, he would know what he meant; and if not, then he wasn't important to Harry's current search.

The shopkeeper smiled slowly, showing eerily white and pointed teeth. "Ah," he said. "Yes, of course. Please, come this way."

The shop's section on magecraft was wide and, as his magic informed him joyfully, of very good quality. Many of the books dated back to when magecraft had been a common practice, preserved by a host of spells and potions. All of them were accurate. Harry had a hard time limiting his selection to something that could easily shrink down to a convenient size. Once he had managed that, the shopkeeper happened to ask if he was a Hogwarts student, and Harry managed to get all his schoolbooks for the coming year for half the price and hassle it would have taken in Diagon Alley. He assumed the ease of this purchase had something to do with the amount of money he had already spent in the shop, but it was still nice not to have anyone ask him why he was bothering to get _Advanced Potion-Making._

Finally he left the store, smiling to himself. As he stepped through the door, a cold shiver ran down his spine. He looked back over his shoulder.

Every one of the quills in the windows was shriveled and charred. Green fire still dripped off one or two of them, fading into nothing just before it hit the books below.

Harry stared at this for a long moment, paralyzed by shock and incomprehension, before his magic reminded him that he needed to get back to the Weasleys. Still mulling over the impossibility of what he had just seen, he took the same back-way shortcut to the brighter (yet gloomier) street of Diagon Alley.

* * *

"Tell me."

The voice that spoke was high and cold. Harry didn't need anyone to tell him to know that this was a vision sent through his link to Voldemort. He wondered if this meant that his meditative state was close enough to sleep to allow the visions to come more easily; he had been working on shielding his mind when this had started.

The Death Eater in front of him was blond and smaller than the others around the room. "They burned, My Lord," he said, his voice barely audible. "Green fire—liquid fire—burned all of them. There was no spell, no potion. It just—_started—_and then a young man came out of the store, and the same green fire was in his eyes."

Harry felt a chill descend like a blanket over Voldemort. When he was Tom, he had gone through every book in the Restricted Section. He knew exactly what could produce green fire like what the boy described.

The only choice he had was to find this new threat and kill it.

Harry's eyes flew open.

_Well,_ he thought, _that was interesting._ It was completely irrelevant to his plans if Voldemort wanted to try to kill him—the man didn't have the magical power needed to fight him—but it would be troublesome if his presence in Voldemort's mind alerted the Dark Lord to the identity of his competitor. He needed to get started on protecting his mind _now._

Pulling a book and a roll of parchment towards him, Harry began to work.

A/N: There it is!

* * *

Okay, if it looked like not much happened in this chapter (as compared to last chapter, when _everything_ happened), this is setting things up. For all those of you who have been waiting for Bella, well… She'll start playing a part now. Much bigger part later, but she comes in about now.

Reviews are nice! They make me feel all loverfulled, and then I want to update soon! (I'm going to update anyway, but still, reviews are loved.)

Bye-bye!


	9. The Little Planet That Could

A/N: I'm back!

Wow, this is long. To all who complained about the chapter length: This chapter is over 4000 words, a record for this story! It was hard, too…

Anyways, I got a request to clarify the source of all the different elements of Harry's magic. So, here we go:

Soul viewing: _Dresden Files._

Mages: Tamora Pierce. The idea that mages will always help other mages comes from the _Circle_ saga.

The green fire: I didn't mean for this to be a mystery… Anyway, this is Harry's magic. The image of fire comes from Tamora Pierce's Tortall canon.

The Liar's Palace: _Trickster's Choice_ and _Trickster's Queen, _by Tamora Pierce.

If I missed anything that you want to know about, please tell me.

On another note, people keep telling me Harry's being really unfair toward the Houses, and I keep making excuses… But Harry has informed me that for the moment, no excuse can be made. That's really what he thinks. However, that may change down the road.

Another thing: Romance of all kinds will still be a side note, but it has been decided that there WILL be some scenes involving Ginny/(another girl—whom yes, we have chosen) romance. I'm just telling you now in case there was anyone who was counting on me not following through with Ginny's orientation.

And one more thing—I went through and titled all the chapters. The titles, however, can only be seen in the chapter navigation menu. I just got sick of having to go through every chapter to figure out when something happened when I was writing the fic and the review replies.

Oh yeah—Bella's here! Finally! She's in one scene, which will be pretty consistent from now until she becomes a MAJOR important character. This will be at the end of chapter 14, btw. I went through and blocked out every chapter scene-by-scene from now until then, so they should be longer and take less time. :)

Anyway, on with the fic!

* * *

Harry was deep in meditation, going through his House of the Mind and slowly constructing his Liar's Palace, when there was a knock on the doorframe.

_That'll be Hermione,_ Harry thought to himself sourly as he opened his eyes. He could no longer remember what he had been working with when he had been interrupted. This was why he needed a lock on the door.

Sliding his glasses onto his face, Harry turned to face the girl in the doorway. No surprise—it was Hermione.

"Yes?" he asked in a fake-sweet voice that reminded him oddly of Umbridge.

Hermione stared him down. "Mrs. Weasley has asked me to inform you that it is your birthday today," she told him, "and you are to come down and celebrate with everyone."

"It's my birthday," Harry said disbelievingly. "_That's_ what you came up here to tell me."

Hermione didn't blink. "Yes," she told him. "And everyone's come over to celebrate. You should come down. Now."

Harry laughed cruelly. "To _celebrate?_" he sneered. "Oh, yes, I suppose we should celebrate. I mean, the earth has circled the sun one more time. I really didn't think it was going to make it this year, but darn it, if it wasn't just 'The Little Planet That Could' all over again." (1)

Hermione shook her head sadly. "How can you not want to come down and see everyone?" she asked. "Even Professor Lupin came."

For some reason, this bit of news interested him. It really should not have made him nearly as happy as it did. He smiled. "Professor Lupin's here?" he asked, just to confirm.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, and I think he'd like it very much if you would come down and at least pretend you're happy to be another year older." With that, she turned and walked out of the room.

Harry was happier, after that, to go downstairs and see everyone.

* * *

Somehow, when he had decided to come see 'everyone,' he hadn't realized that this actually meant pretty much everyone he had ever met.

Luna was in the corner of the room, dreamily sipping a butterbeer and talking to Ginny with a smile on her face. Ginny was holding a rectangular present that looked suspiciously like a book. In the other corner, Lupin was talking to Kingsley, apparently unaware of the gaze Tonks had fixed on him from across the room. All the Weasley brothers had come (Fleur was sitting on Bill's lap in an armchair by the window); Hermione watched him from the doorway, sharp-eyed, as he entered the room and the conversation slowly quieted.

"Harry!" Ron was the first to jump forwards and seize Harry in a one-armed hug. "Happy birthday, mate!"

Harry smiled. It felt out of place on his face. "Thanks, Ron," he said.

The next few minutes were a whirlwind of being greeted by people with various degrees of energy, all of whom wished him a happy birthday.

When Harry could walk without running into someone, he went over to Ginny.

"Hey, Ginny," he said. His grin spread just a little wider. "You look nice." He made sure, while he said it, that she would be able to tell just from meeting his eyes that he thought she looked a hell of a lot more than _nice._

Ginny looked startled. He caught a flash of something else in her eyes before she pushed it away and smiled in return. "Hi, Harry," she said. "Happy birthday." She held out the package she held.

Harry took the gift, letting his hands brush against hers for a moment. "Thanks," he told her, grinning again before he tore off the paper.

It was a book—a large book, surprisingly light, entitled _So You Never Wanted to be a Wizard: Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Magic but Didn't Know Where to Ask._ The cover had a black cat sitting on a floating broom, a pointed hat tilted comically on its head and a sparkling wand in its mouth.

"They used to give it to Muggle-born and Muggle-raised students when they came to Hogwarts for their first year," Ginny told him softly, "but they stopped about ten years ago. It's not the kind of thing Hermione would give you—I mean, it's funny—it's got laws and customs and stories and superstitions and recent history and Hogwarts history and everything you need to know to really join the wizarding world—but it's all presented so you can laugh at how ridiculous we seem next to you—"

"It's great," Harry told her, and he meant it. "Thank you, Ginny."

"You're welcome." Ginny smiled awkwardly. "Well… Happy birthday, Harry."

"Thanks, Gin." Harry took his leave at that point, and was swept through the crowd again. He was surprised, a few minutes later, to find himself standing in front of Tonks.

"Hi, Tonks," he said, nodding in greeting. He was horrified to feel the wire frames, always poorly fitting, slip down his nose at the gesture, letting his eyes meet Tonks' squarely and forcing him into Tonks' soul.

Tonks was fighting. That was to be expected, at this point, but Harry was surprised to find that one of her battles actually pitted her against someone outside her own mind.

She was in love with Remus Lupin. She had gone to him when Sirius died, and had found, in those few hours, that they each had something the other one needed. He was kind, and wonderful, and had cared about Sirius as much as she had. It didn't take long for her to figure out that she had fallen head-over-heels in love with the most dangerous member of the Order.

Her mother would never approve—she would fear for her daughter's safety. Her father would worry, but he would be more worried about Remus. As a Muggle-born, Ted Tonks knew exactly how horrible the wizarding community could be to anyone who was even slightly different. And it hurt Tonks to want Remus. She was so sure that she would hurt him, that if he hurt her he would never be able to live with himself. She didn't want to be the reason he broke.

Harry wanted to blink, but his eyes had other ideas. He dove deeper, until he was looking at the fabric of Tonks' soul.

Colors were everywhere—purples, pinks, and a color that Tonks had termed, and thus written in her soul as being, "hyperactive blue." There was no place that was not bright and colorful.

But the battle showed up even in what should have been a cheerful landscape. Tonks' soul looked like a hurricane. Everywhere, there was a maelstrom; the colors pushed and shoved against each other, gaining and losing ground as they did. There was a single, tiny area in the mass that was calm.

Tonks' essence occupied the eye of the hurricane. It was pure white, the sum of all the colors her eyes encompassed. It was impossibly bright, and Harry looked away just to shield his eyes—

Thus pulling himself out of the soul viewing.

"Happy birthday, Harry," Tonks told him, holding out a small, square package.

Harry backtracked quickly to make sure he knew where they were in the conversation. "Thanks, Tonks," he said, accepting the gift.

Tonks had given him a practice Golden Snitch, which was basically a normal Snitch but had a dial on the bottom that allowed the user to set the range of flight. Harry smiled a natural smile as he thanked her before making an excuse to duck away into the crowd.

How could he _not _look into Lupin's soul after that?

Lupin wasn't as easy to find as Tonks had been, having moved since Harry had last seen him. When he finally found his old Professor after several minutes of searching, Harry's smiled widened and he realized, with something of a shock, that he was really, truly _happy_ to see Lupin.

"Hello, Professor Lupin," Harry said. Casually brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, he accidentally-on-purpose pushed up his glasses so he could meet Lupin's eyes directly.

Just as he'd planned, he was immediately swept into Lupin's soul.

Lupin's soul was much more organized than any of the others. When Harry's vision cleared, he found himself sitting in a memory.

A Remus Lupin who couldn't have been more than sixteen sat on his bed in the Gryffindor boys' dorm. He was alternately trying to interest himself in the book on his bedside table and in tearing his blankets apart thread by thread, and all the while his eyes jumped from the door, to the window, to the book, to the other beds in the room, and back to the door.

After only a minute or so of this, the door opened and Sirius entered the room. Remus leapt to his feet, his eyes even wider than they had been a moment ago.

"Sirius," he breathed. "Did you find it?"

"Yeah," Sirius said, smiling at Remus reassuringly. He pulled a book from an apparently enlarged pocket of his robes and handed it to Remus. "Took forever, too. That thing was at the very back of the Restricted Section, back where the books are so crammed together it takes an hour just to dig one of them out. And here's the kicker. Want to know when that book wound up in the Restricted Section?"

Remus looked up, still wide-eyed and tense. "When?"

"Around three years before we came to school. You have to hand it to Dumbledore; the man knows the consequences of his actions." Harry felt a wave of scorn crash over him at those words and fought the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't want to end this soul viewing just yet. Sirius continued speaking, unaware of his unseen listener. "That book has everything that gives people a logical reason to be prejudiced against werewolves, plus ways to recognize and kill a werewolf when he or she isn't transformed. Dumbledore decided you were coming to school, and that disappeared from public view."

Remus had grown very still.

Sirius seemed to realize at that point what he had just said. "Hey," he told Remus, getting up and pulling the other boy down to sit by him on the bed, "you don't think I'm going to hate you because of that book, do you?"

Remus didn't answer.

Sirius sighed. "Come on, Remus. You're my friend. You don't hate me for being a Black, and I don't hate you for being a werewolf. When are you going to learn that it's safe to take that for granted every once in a while?"

"I killed her," Remus said softly. Harry blinked, trying to figure out whether or not Remus' comment was a non-sequitur.

"That wasn't your fault." Sirius' voice had suddenly become stern.

"It was." Remus clutched the book tighter. "It was my fault. If it hadn't been for me, she wouldn't have been attacked… She'd still be alive…" His shoulders began to shake with barely suppressed sobs.

Sirius didn't seem to know exactly what to do in this situation. He wound up just putting a hand on Remus' shoulder and telling him softly, "Remy… This book was in the back of the Restricted Section. Barely anyone even knew it existed. How can you possibly justify holding yourself responsible for knowing the information in there?"

Remus didn't look convinced, but his tremors slowed and finally stopped so that he could ask a question. "Is there anything else in here that I need to know… right now?"

Sirius tilted his head to one side as he thought. "Basically, it just says that when a werewolf turns sixteen, silver affects them all the time, and in exchange their senses and physical abilities are enhanced… But I guess you probably already figured that out."

Remus smiled wryly. "Yeah…" he said softly. "I did. My mother left me a silver necklace… that I can't wear anymore."

Sirius was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, "I'm sorry," in a tone that clearly said he wished he could say more than that.

"It's interesting, though," Remus said with a sudden change in tone. "Sickles don't bother me at all. I looked it up, and as of 1839, Gringotts puts spells on all their coins so that they lose all magical properties, basically so werewolves and a few other magical creatures can handle money."

Sirius raised one eyebrow. "That _is_ interesting," he agreed. "Oh!" He seemed to have remembered one more thing. "The book also tells what typically characterizes an untransformed werewolf."

Remus looked at him questioningly.

"Basically," Sirius said, "it says that as much of a predator as the transformed werewolf is, the human is usually that much… it says 'prey', but that just seems so weird. It also says that the werewolves people are afraid of are the ones who take the opposite path, who are as aggressive when they're not transformed as they are during the full moon, but that those werewolves are a distinct minority."

Harry was getting bored with this conversation, informative as it was. _It would have been nice to know about this in third year, when Snape set that stupid essay,_ he thought wryly. _Now it's just irritating. And who's this 'she' they mentioned, anyway? It seemed like that was the important thing, until…_

Harry didn't get to finish the thought before he was swept into another memory.

Remus' memories of his transformed self were warped and distorted. They looked like one of those annoying flashback scenes in TV shows where the camera shakes more than it focuses. And for once, Harry found himself actually viewing a memory through the person's eyes.

This particular memory rushed Harry along the road. He could vaguely remember, somehow, breaking out of the _cage_ that the human had put him in. Now he was running down the road, searching for one particular house out of the many that surrounded him. It would be easy to find; even without any real concept of what a 'house' was, the wolf could smell the person he was looking for. The smell was so strong, so clear, that there would be no problem in finding her.

And there she was, still working outside despite the late hour. She was working on one of the noisy boxes that ran down the road occasionally, fooling with something inside it. Harry/Moony slowed and approached her quietly, knowing what he was going to do.

The girl heard them when a twig snapped under their foot. Her head snapped up, and her eyes widened as she focused on the wolf running towards her. The wolf was closer to the door of the house than she was; she had no chance if she went that way.

So she turned and jumped onto another roaring monster, kicking it to life and racing across the grass toward the black path behind her.

Harry/Moony chased her for miles. The wolf did not tire easily; he could keep running all night, if he so chose; but the girl's growling _bike_ was just as fast, and didn't seem any more ready to stop than he was.

When the sky was just turning gray, the girl turned a corner too fast and the monster under her collapsed. Somehow, she managed to jump off without getting seriously hurt, but she was sprawled on the ground as the wolf came up to her.

The girl's wide eyes and pounding heart made her so _tempting…_ but that was not what the wolf had come for. More gently than he normally would have even considered possible, Harry/Moony lowered his head and bit the girl's shoulder, barely deep enough to draw blood.

The girl gasped and stiffened. Harry/Moony could feel the moon setting and the sun rising, mixing strange human thought patterns with his own simple, logical ones, as the girl's body jerked and convulsed. Her eyes rolled back in her head; her arms twitched and jerked; a human word, _seizure,_ jumped into Harry/Moony's mind.

His paws were changing, his muzzle shrinking, but he kept watching her. As the sun fully rose and Harry/Moony changed back to Harry/Remus in a transformation that would have been painful had they been able to pay attention but the _human _on the ground in front of them, the girl's convulsions ceased. She was dead.

A scrap of Moony's instinctive knowledge remained, informing Harry/Remus, none too kindly, of what had just happened.

Muggles die from lycanthropy.

Werewolves mark their mates.

Remus had loved this Muggle girl, and so she had died.

The grief that filled Harry/Remus was overwhelming. Harry pushed past it, demanding to be taken away, to be shown something else—_anything_ else.

So he was taken away from the torturous memories and shown instead the fabric and shape of Remus Lupin's soul.

Lupin's soul _was_ more organized than the others. Somehow, Harry had the feeling that Moony's instinct had helped with that in some bizarre way; but that didn't matter now. Right now, he was only looking at the space around him.

Lupin's soul looked like the surface of the moon, filled with craters and covered with hills but essentially smooth under all of that. The battle he waged was shown above it, in swirling amber air.

Harry raised an ethereal hand to the amber wind and felt the first battle. He could have predicted this one, actually.

Lupin was fighting hard _not_ to love Tonks. She was a vibrant girl, and would be more vibrant with joy if he would only accept her, but she would be marked. Lupin would never allow that.

The next wind that Harry touched showed him something else, something he hadn't realized he expected.

Sirius had been Remus' closest friend, and had offered his companionship as family, as well. Harry didn't understand how this had started, and he thought he wouldn't unless he could see into Sirius' soul, but he understood when he saw that werewolves were different enough to see no difference between men and women when looking for life partners. Remus had fought from their seventh year, when Sirius had told him, to keep from needing Sirius to be a partner. Even if Sirius would hesitate at taking that step, Moony wouldn't. Remus had won the battle, day by day; and then when Sirius had died, Remus had almost felt relief that the battle was over, and had immediately hated himself for it.

For the first time, Harry saw a reason why it was better to let Sirius remain dead. He hadn't thought about it much, since he had started studying, but had he thought about it before, he would have thought there was no reason not to want Sirius back. Now he thought differently.

Harry finally, and without the least bit of reluctance, broke eye contact with Lupin and ended the soul viewing.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," Lupin told him, just as Tonks had done, holding out a package. Harry took it with a smile and a "thank you."

Lupin had given him another book. This one looked just as interesting as the last—_Runes and Rituals in Modern Spellwork._ Harry was surprised to see it. He hadn't thought books like this one would be legal.

"I know you don't take Ancient Runes," Lupin said, "but I thought you might find it interesting regardless. It's actually quite useful in defense—most wizards don't think to enchant objects by carving runes into them anymore, but they can offer some powerful protection."

Harry had to wonder, as he thanked Lupin and tried not to sound too enthusiastic, if the man knew the significance of what he had just given Harry.

* * *

A blur of gifts, birthday wishes, and one of Mrs. Weasley's feasts later, Harry finally made his way back up to his room. Despite the fact that he had gone downstairs with low expectations, he had almost enjoyed himself. There had been a lot of guests, and a lot of gifts, and a birthday cake that Harry had wanted to eat two helpings of but had run out of room; and Harry had realized once again how quickly he forgot the joys of simply sensory response. Hearing people's voices rise in excitement and happiness was an experience his latest project hadn't really given him, and viewing people from the outside was more interesting than his soul viewings had led him to believe.

But now that he was away from all the people, the 'party persona' slid away to be replaced by the all-business Harry that he was growing so used to. He headed over to the bed, where two books and his notes lay, and sat down to begin meditating.

A Liar's Palace was different from normal Occlumency. It actually worked very well with the House of the Mind that Harry had already set up. The way a basic Liar's Palace worked was by allowing a person to create a series of "rooms" in their mind, each holding answers to different questions, each granting a different element to a new persona. In the end, the Liar's Palace would allow a person to lie through truth potions as strong as Veritaserum. All a person had to do was "enter" their Liar's Palace and the answers to all the questions they were asked would be provided.

Harry's Liar's Palace had to be a bit more complicated than that. Since he was letting Snape actually enter his mind himself, he had to make sure that Snape _saw_ what he expected to see. He had decided that it would be highly amusing (for him, anyway) to make the persona in the Liar's Palace into the Gryffindor golden boy.

So that was what he was busy doing.

All the memories Snape had already seen (and it would have been impossibly annoying trying to remember which ones those were if not for the organization in his House of the Mind) had to go in the outside of the Liar's Palace. He made sure to make each one complete, filling it with as much detail as possible. Then he added all the memories from school that displayed his Gryffindorish-ness, making sure each of _them_ was as complete as the others. Random class events and odd happenings from before he came to Hogwarts filled another set of rooms. All the while he was intensely aware of the locked door to his House of the Mind, behind which he would wait and watch Snape reading his Liar's Palace.

As he began shaping the actual personality of the inhabitant of the Liar's Palace, Harry became aware of an idea his magic had been nudging him with for some time. His magic suggested that it might be amusing (again, for him) to create a series of locked doors, behind which were a few of the experiences he had gone through over the summer, a few new ways of thinking that would go against the rest of the Liar's Palace, but that Snape couldn't get to. He could add one or two every week or so, and laugh as Snape grew increasingly frustrated with his lack of progress. It was impossible, his magic told him, to go over a year having one's mind regularly invaded without putting up at least some sort of rudimentary, subconscious defense. It would be better to have locked doors that would at least make it _seem_ like he was making (entirely unnecessary, at this point) progress.

Harry liked that idea. Foregoing his work on the Gryffindor golden boy for the moment, he began selecting the memories and thoughts to lock up.

* * *

Bellatrix Lestrange stood in a dark room. A small pendant dangled from her left hand, which traced circles and patterns in the air independent of any movement on Bella's part.

Bellatrix held her wand loosely in her right hand, the tip lit with a soft glow as she stared at the pendant as though it had done her a personal offense. Scrying for a person was an easy enough art to master. You didn't need a piece of them, or any of that nonsense; with a little practice you could find a person just by focusing on an identifying feature. The green fire her Lord had described was clear in Bella's mind, but the pendant refused to focus.

This threat to her Lord was out there, walking free, and Bella could do _nothing_ about it. She knew next to nothing. He hadn't left England, of that she was certain beyond any doubt; but there was no way to be more specific.

Bella sighed and lowered the pendant, lighting the lamps in the room with a wave of her wand. There was really no point in continuing; she had a headache, and scrying took total focus. The problem with being the most trusted follower, she mused, was that you were stuck with the most impossible tasks.

Frustrated in her attempt for the time being, she turned and left the room to go home. She _would_ find this boy, she vowed, no matter what it took.

* * *

(1): I totally ripped this out of House, M.D. … which I do not own.

A/N: Yay! That was fun!

Umm… before people start yelling at me for making ANOTHER person gay… That's not exactly it. Remus is kinda gender-blind in this, thanks to Moony. Basically, Moony lets him see everyone as equally… Lovable? Is that the right word? Anyway, just for clarification, I just completely ended pretty much any chance of Remus/Tonks… or any other pairing with Remus. (I have this theory that JKR only put Remus and Tonks together so people couldn't say Remus/Sirius could _technically_ be canon.)

Okay, so this is the longest chapter yet. You think maybe that means it'll get a lot of reviews…? Maybe…? Please review! Reviews are loved!


	10. Sirius and School

Harry opened his eyes the next morning to a loud rapping on the door

A/N: I am SO SORRY this chapter took so long. I hit a roadblock with a scene I forgot I had to plan for and then REALLY didn't want to write. But now I'm done, and here it is. As a reward for waiting so long, it's really long—8,023 words!

This is the revised version after fixing the word mix-ups and cultural mistakes pointed out to me by David305. Actually, it's the second revised version, with a slight alteration to the… roadblock scene.

Please read and review!

--

Harry opened his eyes the next morning to a loud rapping on the door.

"Who is it?" he called. He was extremely surprised when a voice other than Hermione's answered.

"Mum says you should come downstairs," Ginny said from behind the door. "She's got something to tell you about. And she says to bring that book I gave you, too." There was a sound of footsteps then as Ginny went back downstairs.

Harry was curious enough to get up, get dressed, and go downstairs without complaint.

--

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley greeted him as he came down, enveloping him in a hug. Harry breathed the smell coming off her, a smell like food, polished wood, and the garden outside; and felt his head spin. His brain couldn't seem to keep up with the data his nose was giving him. It was disturbing, actually; it had only been one night since he had been downstairs. How could he have forgotten what smell was like after such a short time?

"'Morning, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, returning the hug awkwardly; it was hard to hug someone when one hand was full of a bulky book.

"Sit down, sit down; have something to eat." Mrs. Weasley ushered him over to the table and sat him down, putting a plate of pancakes and sausage in front of him as she did. "Well, I suppose you're wondering why I called you downstairs?"

Harry nodded as he half-warily, half-eagerly took a bite of pancakes. He was not disappointed; the sensation of taste overwhelmed him as much as it had a few weeks ago, and he had to force himself to listen to what Mrs. Weasley was saying.

"Well, I got them to agree not to bother you on your birthday with it, but they won't put it off any longer. Sirius' will-reading is tomorrow, and you need to be ready."

Harry swallowed his huge mouthful painfully so he could focus on asking his question. "Will-reading?"

"Of course, didn't Professor Dumbledore tell you? You have to come; you must be the primary beneficiary, or they wouldn't have waited so long. Anyway, you should get ready today; look smart, make sure you're prepared for whatever they throw at you."

Harry nodded dazedly and continued eating. Professor Dumbledore _hadn't_ told him about the will-reading, or that memory would have flipped up the corresponding card. But if he didn't want Harry to find out, wouldn't he have told Mrs. Weasley not to say anything…? It was all very confusing, even for him. He really did need to be prepared, though.

"What time is the will-reading?" he asked after clearing his mouth again.

"One o'clock in the afternoon," Mrs. Weasley told him.

Harry nodded as his magic informed him of the current time. Twenty-six hours… He could read that book cover to cover in twenty-six hours.

--

_So You Never Wanted to be a Wizard_ had an entire chapter devoted to inheritance and inheritance law. Harry learned a little way into it that this was because wizards with magical creature blood had a time when they "came into their Inheritance," which gave them different abilities from other wizards. There were a few families who were named as having strong magical creature blood, but they were all foreign names and mostly unfamiliar, although Harry did recognize _Delacour_ among the many others.

He stopped dead in shock when he reached the section on _Beneficiaries._

_Titles and lands cannot legally be passed on to a wizard more than a year underage. If the primary beneficiary cannot legally hold what is granted to him/her, the inheritance may be held in trust by the primary beneficiary's legal guardian. Gringotts may, however, delay the will-reading for up to one hundred and thirty-six days to allow the primary beneficiary to reach the age of sixteen, and often they will, as they have had problems with guardians keeping the "trust inheritances" beyond the time when the legal beneficiary comes of age. Under no circumstances, however, may they delay the will-reading for longer than this period._

It was the most serious passage in the book so far, certainly in the chapter, and it hit Harry over the head like a cartoon anvil. Sirius had named him the primary beneficiary_._ He had inherited lands or titles, and the will-reading had been delayed so that the goblins could give it to him directly…

He hadn't thought about Sirius' death since he had stored the memory in his Liar's Palace. Thinking about it now was suffocating him. He closed his eyes and tried desperately to find the calm of his meditation. It took several hours before the calm finally emerged and swallowed him into near-unconsciousness.

--

For once, Harry 'woke up' on his own the next day. The calm that had been so elusive the night before seemed to have soaked into his skin overnight and now shielded him from the world. He dug a set of clothes from one of last year's trips to Hogsmeade out of his trunk and slid into the bathroom to shower.

Clean and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that actually fit (and bore the slogan "It's easy to be open-minded when YOU'RE one of the things most people don't BELIEVE IN" **(1) **), Harry returned to his room to don the long green outer robe of his dress robe set and to put on his glasses before he risked forgetting them. He took his wand out of his trunk and put it in his pocket—_So You Never Wanted to be a Wizard_ had said that besides blood, wands were the most common way of confirming a wizard's identity.

"Harry—Oh." Harry turned to the door. Hermione stood there, dressed in an off-white sweater and jeans under a blue outer dress robe. "You're… up. That's different."

"I suppose it is," Harry agreed. "Is breakfast ready?"

Hermione nodded, still a little surprised. "Yeah. Mrs. Weasley said to tell you to come on down. I guess that means now, since you're ready."

"All right," Harry said, smiling calmly. "Lead the way."

--

After a breakfast that had lost some of its shock value but none of its taste, the Weasleys and Harry went to Gringotts.

Harry dreaded the will-reading at first—having a bunch of emotional people tell him how _sorry_ they were for his loss was not his idea of fun. He soon realized, however, the difference between a wizard's death and a Muggle's death.

Wizards assumed that they would live a long time. They assumed that their lives would be made easier by magic. This made a wizard's death three times more shocking and three times less sorrowful than a Muggle's. There were times when people would grieve, of course, but the grieving process did not extend to the will-reading. There, people returned to being their normal selves.

"Mr. Potter," a goblin greeted him as they entered. "Please, follow me." Other goblins greeted the Weasleys and led them to other rooms.

Harry followed the goblin down a corridor to a tall wooden door. The goblin turned to him. "In here, Mr. Potter," he said. "We must confirm your identity before we can permit you to enter the will-reading."

Harry followed the little man into the room. It was high-ceilinged but small, with only a table and two chairs, and a black metal basin sitting on the table.

"Take a seat, Mr. Potter; this won't take long." The goblin sat in the opposite chair and pulled out a small knife. "Hold out your hand, please."

Mage's curiosity overpowered Harry as he obeyed. "Sorry, but if I were impersonating myself—say, using Polyjuice Potion—wouldn't my blood be the same?"

The goblin made a tiny cut on Harry's finger. Harry turned his hand over, letting a drop of blood fall into the basin, waiting for an answer.

"There are certain magical signatures that can be read in blood," the goblin explained as he drew runes in the air above the basin. "Those cannot be replicated by a mere potion. The knowledge of how to mimic such a signature was lost almost a thousand years ago."

Harry nodded, understanding, watching the basin began to fill with light. Runes matching the ones the goblin had drawn were glowing where they had been etched into the metal basin. Light played over the blood in the bowl before drifting up in the shape of yet more runes.

The goblin looked them over carefully. Harry watched shock set in on his face. _Magical signatures…_ What exactly might the little man be seeing?

Finally, the goblin looked up, trying not to smile. "Well, Mage Potter," he said. "It's been confirmed. You are most certainly _you._ We can proceed to the will-reading now."

Harry followed the goblin out of the room and down more hallways, until they reached another door, this one made of dark stone. The goblin pushed it open and bowed Harry into the room.

Harry looked around the room at the people already there. Hermione and the Weasleys were there, as were Lupin, Dumbledore, and Tonks. So these were the beneficiaries. It was a surprisingly small group, considering how wealthy and well-connected the Black family was.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Potter," his goblin guide told him. Harry obeyed, moving to a wooden armchair near the desk at the front of the room. Three goblins sat at the desk, four when Harry's guide sat with them.

Harry's guide began speaking. "Date: August the second, year nineteen ninety-six. Will-reading of Sirius Black. Myself, Hanrem, presiding as will-reader, Jepyr as recorder, Yullen and Rolin as witnesses. Jepyr will now call presence."

The goblin to Hanrem's right cleared his throat. "When I call your name, report," he ordered. "Harry Potter."

"Here," Harry replied.

"Hermione Granger."

"Present."

"Arthur, Molly, Fred, George, Ginevra, and Ronald Weasley."

A chorus of "here's" replied. Jepyr went on down the list. Remus Lupin, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Nymphadora Tonks (Tonks' eye twitched as she responded), and… Narcissa and Draco Malfoy?

Harry concealed his surprise behind a glass-smooth mask. Why would the Malfoys be included in Sirius' will? He had a sudden feeling that there was something going on in this family that he didn't know about.

"The Malfoys' inheritance will be held in trust at Gringotts Bank," Henram ordered when no one responded to his second call. Jepyr's quill flew as he began writing.

"The will of Sirius Black," Henram intoned, opening a flat case on the table in front of him and lifting out a document.

"_I, Sirius Orion Black, being of sound body and mind, leave my assets to the following recipients in the event of my death._

"_To Hermione Granger, I leave all the books in the library at the Black London house. Despite my family's reputation, I'm sure you'll find plenty to interest you, Hermione."_

Harry looked over at Hermione, interested. The Black family library would be mostly stocked with books on Dark magic; how would Hermione take such a gift?

Hermione's smile was small, but Harry could see the gleam in her eyes. Hermione liked this new collection far more than she thought she should.

"_To the Weasley family, left to Ronald Weasley by name, I leave two million Galleons. I'm sure you can use it._

"_To Remus Lupin, last true Marauder, I leave two and a half million Galleons and the Black family country home and all its contents. Buy yourself some new robes, Moony."_

Lupin laughed softly. It was a very Sirius line.

"_To Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, left to Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore by name, I leave five million Galleons, to go toward the scholarship fund for Muggle-born and Muggle-raised students._

"_To Nymphadora Tonks and her mother, I leave two million Galleons and reinstate you to the Black family. You and your mother deserve it, Nymmie."_

Tonks looked like she wanted to either strangle Sirius for calling her "Nymmie" or break wizard custom and start crying.

"_And to Harry James Potter, I leave the rest of my estates, money, and my title as Lord Black. I'm proud of you, Prongslet."_

No shred of emotion slipped out from under Harry's mask. He was in perfect control.

But "Prongslet"…

He had never really gotten the chance to grieve for Sirius. He'd fallen headlong into his obsession with magecraft and forgotten all about his godfather. Sirius hadn't forgotten him, ever. He'd broken out of Azkaban to help Harry. And Harry had forgotten about him.

He hadn't forgotten.

The voice of his magic called to Harry. He hadn't forgotten about Sirius; he'd just moved on to magic. His life wouldn't last forever. He'd have time to worry about the dead once he was dead as well.

Harry came back to the room just as Henram called his name. He went up to the goblin's desk and signed the paper where Henram indicated. That was it. He was officially Harry James Potter, Lord Black.

The goblin handed him a silver band inlaid with an onyx gem. "This is the ring of the Black family. Wear it on your non-wand hand, first finger; that means you are the legal head of the family—"

"But not related by blood," Harry finished quietly. He slid the ring onto his left hand just as the goblin had instructed. It instantly molded itself to fit his finger perfectly. Harry smiled in thanks and stepped out of the way of the next signer.

"Come on, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said when everyone had signed the paper. "Let's go home."

Harry nodded. "All right."

--

Harry shut himself up in his room as soon as they got home. He spent the rest of the summer there, only leaving when Hermione came upstairs and physically forced him out the door. After a few days, Hermione abducted Hedwig, declaring that Harry wouldn't take care of her, so someone else would have to do it for him.

He worked constantly on his Liar's Palace. He soon discovered that the time difference between his mind and the real world was such that his work went very quickly, and he was finished with his Liar's Palace with two weeks left before school. Bored without a set task, he dove into the books he had gotten in Knockturn Alley, and found that they were nearly as promising as they had seemed, no mean feat for books bought in the wizarding world. The first book he read detailed several different styles of meditation and a general overview of magic, while emphasizing that the only way to really learn magecraft was by _doing_ it, and so it would be pointless to detail the results of a successful meditation. The next talked about wandpower vs. willpower, and how it related to the difference between wizardry and magecraft, and was even so helpful as to go into the specifics of how to use magecraft to improve one's skills at Potions. Harry spent days reading and re-reading each of these books, delighting in the utter _accuracy_ of the knowledge within them, and was sad to realize, one day, that he only had one more day before September 1st.

The most helpful of all the books was the one that explained the intricacies of willpower. Harry read this one when he only had five days before school term started.

_The wonder of magecraft is that it relies more on magic itself than on the mage who wields it. This magic is so connected to the mage that it soon learns to interpret the will of the mage even before the mage realizes that this is a will, and not a passing whim. Whatever is desired, the magic will produce, even going so far as to destroy things for which the mage feels utter hatred. For this task, magic will always take the form of fire, that most destructive of elements, and burn away the offending object until nothing is left but a twisted and blackened skeleton. However, this usually does not occur until several years into a mage's training._

So the green fire that had burned the Blood Ink window display had been his magic, reacting to his hatred… But it shouldn't have happened for another few years, at least… Thinking about this gave Harry a headache every time. At that point he would just give up, get up, and keep packing for Hogwarts.

All too soon, the summer ended and Hermione was knocking on his door for the last time to tell him they were leaving the next morning.

--

In hindsight, descending from a meditative state directly into the hustle and bustle of September 1st in the Weasley household without pause might not have been the best of ideas.

Harry knew it was a bad idea before he had gotten halfway down the stairs. He realized, upon noticing Ginny's expression out of the corner of his eye, that he had left his glasses on his bedside table and had to run back upstairs, trying desperately not to run into anyone while simultaneously not looking up high enough to risk meeting anyone's eyes.

Then, after already being almost entirely packed, Harry had to chuck everything out of his trunk again so he could hide his books from Knockturn Alley at the bottom, where there was almost no chance of discovery.

Then, after Hermione had practically shoved food down his throat, it was time to go.

The ride to the station didn't bother Harry; he just slipped into another meditative trance and relaxed, regaining his easy connection with his magic after the chaos of the morning had made him lose focus too many times to count. But when they reached King's Cross, his world shattered.

It was an explosion of sound. Not the recalled, half-decayed sound from the memories he'd been working with for most of the summer; this was full-on, undiluted _sound._ Voices blasted his ears from every direction; he wanted to flinch away, but it was _everywhere_ and anywhere he went he would only be walking into more of it; the trains were whistling shrilly, sending violent shivers down his spine; and he thought he could even hear the _tick, tick _of the large clock in the station as it drew nearer and nearer to eleven o'clock.

"All right, let's go," Mrs. Weasley said, heading toward the barrier that would take them to platform 9 ¾. "Ginny, you come first, with me."

Harry watched the others run through the barrier, pushing their luggage trolleys, until it was his and Ron's turn to go. As he approached the barrier, he wondered what the metal would look like if he took off his glasses and viewed its essence—

That was all he had time to wonder before he was in the barrier and in pain.

It felt as though every nerve ending in his body had been stripped bare and scraped at with an iron file. The passageway between King's Cross and Platform 9 ¾ was ridiculously crude; it took nothing into consideration but getting a person from here to there. It tried to use a form of collapsed space, which was impossibly uncomfortable at the best of times, instead of dissolving the subjects through nonbeing and reforming them on the other side; worst of all, it was wizard-made, and that made it nowhere near bearable for a mage. Apparition he had been able to stand, weeks ago, when his connection with his magic was still new; this had him gasping for air that had been sucked away, screaming in his mind from the pain of this torturous portal that seemed to take so much _longer_ now than it ever had before…

Harry barely noticed when he was on the other side. His senses had dulled in the portal to protect themselves, and it took several seconds for him to regain them enough to realize what was happening.

"Harry? Harry!" Harry became aware, with a jolt, of someone shaking him and yelling his name. He looked up and saw a familiar face… _whose face? Ron… Ron who? Oh, right… Ron… Ron!_

"Harry, are you all right?" Ron whispered. Dropping his voice, he asked, "Was it… you know… your scar?"

Harry shook his head, straightening. "I… just felt dizzy. Headache. That's all. I'm all right, Ron, thanks."

Falling back into his half-meditative state, Harry looked around the group. Hermione looked somewhere in between fear and worry. _She knows,_ he thought. _She must know, or at least suspect. _His magic told him not to worry. Hermione wouldn't try anything; she was too worried about him right now, at least.

Harry moved his gaze beyond the group to the platform. It was a familiar scene: first years crying as they hugged their parents good-bye; Muggle-borns standing with their overawed families; older students saying a quick good-bye to their parents before running off to join their friends. It all felt very distant, somehow. It didn't seem quite real.

"Let's just go get on the train," Hermione broke in. "Come on. It's almost time to go."

Harry nodded, looking back at the Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley gave everyone a hug, and Fred and George, who had come to see them off, hugged their siblings and waved as the group headed for the train.

On board the train, Harry bade Ron and Hermione good-bye as they headed for the prefects' cabin. They left with promises to join Harry in a while.

When they were gone, Harry turned to Ginny. "So… shall we find a compartment then?" he asked, smiling.

"Can't, Harry, I said I'd meet Dean," Ginny replied.

"Oh… right," Harry said, as though he'd forgotten. "Well…" he said, watching her with obvious reluctance, "see you later, then."

"Bye, Harry!" Ginny called as she left.

Harry's glass-smooth mask slipped for a moment to reveal frustration. Ginny actually looked _excited_ to go meet her boyfriend. Was she really that delusional, or just that good at masks?

Either way, her façade would crumble soon enough. She didn't have the reserve it would take to ignore Harry forever, and responding would take some honesty.

Harry turned away. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were gone, but there were other friends he could go find. He grabbed the handle of his trunk and Hedwig's cage and set off down the corridor.

"Harry! Hey, Harry!"

Harry turned at the sound of the familiar voice to see Neville approaching him, trunk in one hand and Trevor in the other. "Hey, Neville," he greeted his year-mate.

"Harry," Neville said. "Are you looking for a compartment? I am…"

"Yeah," Harry said, remembering to smile. "Come on; there are usually empty compartments near the back." Neville nodded, following.

"How did you do on your O.W.L.s, Harry?" Neville asked on the way. "I passed everything but Divination—I barely got an 'Acceptable' in Potions… But I got an 'Outstanding' in Herbology. Do you think I'll be able to take Transfiguration with an 'Acceptable'?"

"I don't know; McGonagall's pretty strict," Harry said, not really sure what he was saying. "Hey, Luna's in here." Hands full, he glared at the door until it slid open. "Hi, Luna," he said, smiling at the Ravenclaw as he entered the compartment.

"Hello, Harry," Luna said, voice as dreamy as ever. "Did you have a good summer?"

"Yeah," Harry answered. His smile grew. "Yeah, it was great. How was yours?"

"Oh, very good," Luna said happily. "Daddy and I went looking for a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. We didn't actually find any, but we did find a beautiful little orphaned sphinx cub. I brought her back with me." Luna patted the basket at her side. "Sphinxes aren't _quite_ as rare as Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, but they are magnificently exotic, aren't they?"

"Oh, yeah," Harry said truthfully. "Although, their one-chance-per-customer policy on riddles can get a little annoying at times."

"Oh, you've met one?" Luna asked.

"In the Triwizard Tournament," Harry told her, "guarding the center of the maze where the Cup was hidden."

Luna and Neville's expressions darkened slightly for just a moment. Then Luna smiled again. "But Emuishere won't hurt you," she assured Harry, reaching into the basket and lifting out a small bundle of fur.

The first sphinx Harry had met had been fully grown, and shaped as much like a woman as it was like a cat. This sphinx cub was much smaller, with tangled black hair and bright, almond-shaped black eyes. Its toddler girl's head blended smoothly into a body that was entirely lion cub, with no further evidence of the sphinx's human half.

"Emuishere **(2)**?" he asked.

"It's an Egyptian name meaning 'kitten'," Luna clarified. "Or Emu for short, which means 'cat'. I know, it's not terribly original, but it's pretty, isn't it? Just like her."

"It is very pretty," Harry agreed. Looking up from the sphinx back to Luna's eyes, he was struck by a sudden curiosity. _What would I see if I met your eyes, Luna?_ he wondered, fingering the wire of his glasses. _What possible war could you be fighting against yourself? You are exactly who you appear to be, and you make no effort to hide that. Is that all really a lie?_

Luna met his eyes with such calm that he almost thought she knew what he was about to do, but before he could even start to pull his glasses off, the door of the compartment opened again.

Harry turned to face a girl with thick dark hair and a heart-shaped face, his hand falling to his side. "Excuse me," the girl said. "I'm Romilda Vane."

"And?" he asked impatiently. She had an air about her that he wasn't sure he liked.

"Well," Romilda said, "I wondered if you wanted to come back to our compartment. You don't have to hang out with _these_ guys," she said in a stage whisper, indicating Luna, holding Emu, and Neville, who had lost a hold of Trevor and was chasing him around the compartment.

"No, of course not," Harry agreed blandly. "Now that the Ministry agrees that I'm not crazy, it would be perfectly reasonable for me to abandon the people who knew that from the start."

Romilda stood still, apparently unsure if he'd just agreed with her or told her to shove off.

"_These guys,_" he said in a mocking stage whisper to match hers, "are my friends. Which you aren't. So I'm going to turn down the offer of popularity, thanks. I get bored with people who don't care about any part of me other than my scar."

Romilda's mouth opened and closed like a fish's.

"He means for you to leave," Luna clarified. Harry could see her reflection in the glass window behind Romilda; for once in her life, Luna had dispensed with the dreamy expression and met Romilda's eyes with an intensity that rivaled Dumbledore's. "Now."

Romilda finally seemed to figure out that she was being banished. Without another word, she turned and left.

Harry turned and sat down across from Luna, smiling gratefully.

Luna's face returned to its dreamy smile. Suddenly she noticed something. "Harry," she asked, "when did you get that ring?"

Harry looked down at the Black family ring. "Sirius' will-reading," he told her, "a month ago tomorrow."

"So you're the _head_ of the _Black_ family now?" Luna asked interestedly.

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

Luna had opened her mouth to ask something else when the door opened again. It wasn't Romilda who entered this time, though. It was a brown-haired girl, so little she had to be a first-year, clutching two tiny scrolls of parchment.

"Excuse me," she half-whispered. "But I'm supposed to give these two Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom." She held out the scrolls.

Harry accepted his with a word of thanks. "Who are they from?" he asked as Neville took his.

"A teacher, three compartments down… Professor Slughorn, he said." The girl stared wide-eyed for another moment before finally turning and almost running out of the compartment.

Harry raised an eyebrow after her. _Weird,_ he thought with a mental shrug as he looked back at his letter and broke the wax with a finger.

The letter was short and to the point.

_Dear Harry,_

_I would be delighted if you would join me  
in my compartment for a spot of lunch._

_Professor Slughorn_

_And the Slug Club doors are opened,_ Harry thought, smiling slightly. He looked up at Neville. "An invitation?" he asked.

Neville nodded. "Yeah," he said, frowning slightly. "I don't even know who this teacher _is,_" he confided in a whisper.

"Still, it might be interesting," Luna said. Neville jumped and Harry laughed out loud; apparently the round-faced boy hadn't realized Luna had been reading over his shoulder.

"D—Don't _do_ that!" he choked out.

"Well, she's right," Harry said. "It might be interesting. Shall we go?" he asked Neville.

Neville nodded slowly. "I guess…" he muttered, looking sidelong at Luna.

"Oh, don't worry about me," Luna said, correctly interpreting his glance. "Emu and I can amuse ourselves." She smiled and raised the sphinx cub. "Say good-bye for now, Emu!" she told the little doll-faced kitten, waving Emu's paw at them.

Harry smiled and waved as he and Neville left the compartment and headed for Slughorn's compartment.

Maybe it had something to do with spending half an hour in a compartment talking with friends, but Harry seemed to notice more things now than he had in his half-meditative state on the platform. For one thing, he noticed now that people were stopping to stare at him even worse than they had the previous year. The problem with being a celebrity, he supposed, was that no matter what kind of news there was about you, there would be news about you and people would consequently stare.

Reaching Slughorn's compartment, Harry realized that they were not the only two who had been invited.

There was a Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor, both seventh years; a Slytherin boy with black eyes who was in Harry's year but he could only vaguely remember seeing before **(3)**; and, stuffed into a corner beside Slughorn and looking like she wasn't quite sure how she got there, was Ginny Weasley.

"And here's the man of the hour! Harry, m'boy!" Slughorn bounded over to Harry and shook his hand vigorously. Harry tried not to let his annoyance at the man's exuberance show on his face. _Mages are not permitted to show anger,_ he reminded himself. _Anger does not help us. Anger hurts us. Mages do not allow it._

"Hello, Professor Slughorn," he said when he was sure he was in control, smiling politely.

Slughorn clapped him on the back, directing him to a seat. "So glad you could make it, Harry! And here's Neville Longbottom!" He seized Neville's hand as well. Neville looked positively terrified. "I knew your parents well, m'boy… I was terribly sorry to hear about their… condition." He almost looked sincere as he ushered Neville to another seat, making the compartment extremely cramped.

"Now, do you perhaps know Marcus Belby, or Cormac McLaggen?" He indicated the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor in turn. "No? How about Blaise Zabini; I know you three are year-mates…"

Zabini sneered at Neville and glared at Harry. Harry returned the glare with a semi-interested stare that did more to disconcert Zabini than a dozen hexes could have managed.

"I don't think we've ever personally met," Harry said, holding out his hand for Zabini to shake. He let just a little bit of his magic slip out of his hand, enough to let him see Zabini's aura if the other boy took the invitation. "I'm Harry Potter."

Zabini glanced at Slughorn, and Harry's magic triumphantly informed him of the awkward situation he'd put the Slytherin in. Slughorn wanted all these people to be in his little club, and that meant that when he was around, they'd all have to at least pretend to get along.

"Blaise Zabini," he finally answered.

Harry smiled. "Nice to meet you," he said, watching the boy's aura. It was as black as his eyes and shone like glass where the light caught it. _Beautiful_ was the first word Harry would use to describe it.

"Likewise," Zabini replied, releasing Harry's hand and sitting back in his seat. Harry was impressed; there was no hint of stiffness or discomfort in the boy's greeting. Harry would love to know where that skill at social masks came from.

"All right then!" Slughorn said. "As I know you two are familiar with Ginevra here, that makes introductions complete. Let's eat!"

As they ate, Slughorn engaged each of them in conversation in turn. Harry watched each of them for their reactions, memorizing the connections to fame and fortune that had granted each an invitation.

Belby had a famous uncle (Harry was interested to know that this person had invented Wolfsbane Potion; that had to take skill and knowledge, the kind best suited to mages), but he and Belby's father were estranged and the Ravenclaw fell sadly off Slughorn's radar before the gathering had passed its first half an hour. Cormac McLaggen had another famous uncle and knew the new Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, besides, making him immediately someone to watch out for as far as Harry was concerned; Harry didn't trust the new Minister to be any better than the old. Ginny had impressed Slughorn with her skill at the Bat-Bogey Hex. Zabini had a rich mother—although Harry was interested to note that his eyes narrowed a millimeter and his face darkened significantly when she was brought up. Neville had his famous parents and had potentially inherited some of their talent, and Harry, well, Harry was Harry. "The Chosen One," apparently. Ginny and Neville jumped in at that point to say that it was all hogwash, and Harry wasn't sure if he was glad or disappointed that he didn't have to own up to Slughorn's claims.

After a few hours, Slughorn looked around, startled. "My goodness! When did they light the lamps? You all should get on to your compartments and get changed."

Harry stood, giving Slughorn a polite smile and good-bye as he left the compartment with Neville and Ginny, making sure to let Ginny go ahead of him.

"How exactly did you end up in there, Ginny?" Neville asked.

Ginny shrugged. "He saw me hex Zacharias Smith. I thought he was going to give me detention, but he just thought it was a really good hex and invited me to lunch."

"I'm glad he did," Harry said, smiling at Ginny. "It's nice to have another familiar face," he added by way of explanation, eyes lingering on Ginny's for a moment longer than he spoke.

Ginny blinked. An odd look and a faint hint of color crossed her face. _She finally noticed,_ Harry thought as she said, "Well, I'm glad you two were there, too. I was getting worried I'd be completely surrounded by strangers."

They reached the compartment at that moment. Luna looked up as they came in. Harry noticed the expression on her face go from dreamy to stormy and back again in the space of an instant when she looked at him next to Ginny and wondered again what he'd see if he took off his glasses and met her eyes.

Luna had changed into her robes and fed both Hedwig and Emu, judging by the crumbs on Emu's face and the floor of Hedwig's cage and the wrappers lying on the seat. "I'll leave so you boys can change," she said, standing.

"And I need to go back to mine and Dean's compartment," Ginny added, looking a little embarrassed at having forgotten. "I left my trunk there."

She and Luna left the compartment. Harry lifted his trunk down from the luggage rack effortlessly with some help from his magic and fished out his robes in a second. Neville had significantly more trouble getting his luggage down, and Harry finally gave in and helped him.

They changed just in time to hear the conductor's announcement that they were ten minutes away from Hogwarts. Harry felt a moment of panic at the thought of joining the whole school before his magic suggested a solution. He could descend into his Liar's Palace, at least until the feast started and he was in a less crushing mass of people. It would be a perfect way to avoid everyone, and provide a test run so he could work out any 'bugs' before his first Occlumency lesson besides.

Looking out the window so Neville wouldn't notice any change, Harry closed his eyes. _Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor I go,_ he thought, sinking out of reality down into his Liar's Palace and letting Harry Potter, Gryffindor golden boy, emerge from the dusty rooms that made up his home.

'Harry' turned to Neville. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Neville nodded. "Let's go."

The stares began as soon as they shut the compartment door behind them. 'Harry' tried to ignore them, but the intensity of those stares and the constant sound of the rumors going around made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He headed out to the platform as quickly as he could, which, considering the masses of people trying to get a look at their promised savior, wasn't nearly as fast as he would have liked.

Observing distantly from his House of the Mind, Harry thought about Hedwig, left on the train to be taken up by house-elves. He wondered if he could make her more… well, more useful. She was just an owl right now, albeit one who was trained flawlessly and was intelligent enough to respond to his voice and tell when he was upset. Her wild magic could be a valuable asset… and his magic told him that he could always use a companion.

The term was familiar to him; he'd found it in one of the books from Knockturn Alley. Familiars were the partners of wizards; companions were the partners of mages. If he and Hedwig had a strong enough bond, he could infuse her with his magic, thus making her by nature both magical and tied to him.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he looked out through 'Harry's' eyes and found that the golden boy had gotten into a compartment with Luna, Neville, and Ginny. They were talking about the coming school year, a topic that he never would have managed through his disinterest and blatant disgust. Satisfied with his observations, he faded back into his House of the Mind.

Blaise Zabini was an interesting Slytherin. He didn't like Harry; that was normal. But his sneer when the topic of his mother came up was certainly _not_ normal. In Harry's experience, Slytherins were only disdainful of their parents when they were Muggles, Muggle-born, or occasionally when they were in Azkaban. What was it about Zabini's mother that he hated so much?

Glancing up, Harry realized that they had reached the castle and were splitting up to head to their separate tables. Harry watched the golden boy until he reached the table, then switched out with the double and locked the door to his Liar's Palace.

Harry sat down with his friends and looked up in interest as McGonagall brought out the Sorting Hat on its old three-legged stool. Setting it down in front of the first-years, she stepped aside to allow the hat to begin its song.

The hat straightened. A rip near the brim opened and it began to sing:

"_Each year for a thousand now_

_I've watched new students here_

_And before this ends and I take my bow_

_There is much that you must hear._

_For although there is but one school,_

_Of Houses there are four_

_And it has always been the rule_

_That each student gives one House one more._

_These Houses are called by certain names_

_Which from their Founders they take_

_Each Founder, in their time, won great fame_

_And each determined one House to make._

_Brave Godric Gryffindor_

_Had courage that is still known;_

_Rowena Ravenclaw loved her books_

_Through her wits she always shone;_

_Helga Hufflepuff had a kind heart_

_And her diligence won her fame;_

_And crafty Salazar Slytherin_

_Knew 'ruthless' and 'wicked' need not be the same._

_These are the four Houses; all are your fellows_

_And one will give you your friends_

_But be careful not to forget what you know—_

_That this is the beginning, and not the end._

_Ravenclaws might drop their books_

_To help you when you are in need;_

_And do not judge a Hufflepuff's looks_

_To be evidence of some noble creed;_

_Because a man wears red does not mean he will fight_

_Any more fiercely than one who wears green;_

_A Slytherin might do what you call 'nice'_

_Or a Gryffindor what you call 'mean'._

_So take these descriptions with a block of salt_

_And realize there is much you don't know_

_It is about where you belong; there is no fault_

_Do not fear the House where you go._

'_There are four Houses, but this is one School,_

_And that is important, you see'_

_I would that you would listen to this Founders' rule_

_As carefully as you would me._

_But now I know my song must end_

_Be thankful I have not charged a fee_

_Be steady, be strong, be smart, be friends—_

_Let the Sorting begin; the results, we shall see."_

The hat fell silent and bowed to each student. McGonagall turned and began to speak, her voice clear and strict as always.

"When I call your name, you will come up and place the hat on your head. Abner, William!"

A boy with hair even redder than Ron's ran up to the stool and sat down. The hat waited a moment before calling out, "RAVENCLAW!"

William took off the hat and ran off to join his blue-clad Housemates.

"Abner, Michelle!"

William's twin had hair even redder than his, a bright cardinal red that looked like a beacon. No sooner had the hat touched her head than it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!"

Harry missed the rest of the Sorting. He fell far into his House of the Mind, thinking about the Sorting Hat's song and getting his magic's opinion. He could remember, quite clearly, Hagrid's claim that "There wasn't a single witch or wizard went bad who wasn't in Slytherin"… but that was completely false, and he'd known that since third year. Pettigrew went bad, didn't he? _He_ certainly hadn't been a Slytherin… Ravenclaw could mean anyone from Cho to Luna; Hufflepuff had stoic Hogwarts Champion Cedric Diggory right alongside talkative and easily suspicious Justin Finch-Fletchley… yet Slytherin always meant "enemy". It was something to think about.

Not now, though. Not while there were Housemates to fool and he couldn't enter his Liar's Palace without someone noticing.

Reminded of this, Harry brought himself back to reality just in time to see "Zarves, Christopher" be sorted into Gryffindor and clap with his Housemates as the Hat was taken away and the feast appeared.

It was even harder to handle the tastes of the foods here than it was to handle Mrs. Weasley's cooking. Mrs. Weasley made a single meal, but there were at least fifty different dishes here. As soon as he tried one, he wanted to taste another. Did lamb taste better with or without gravy? Did peppers and pork taste bad in the same bite? It was an impossibly simple curiosity that he could do nothing but indulge and just try to stay tuned in to the conversations around him.

When dinner was finished, desserts were sent up from the kitchens and the taste-testing began again. If you added vanilla ice cream to chocolate or strawberry or coffee, did it change the taste? Did ice cream taste different if you let it melt before you ate it? What did warm cake and cold ice cream taste like together? Did it taste different than cake that had cooled down eaten with ice cream? Silly questions about taste took over, steering his hand toward another dessert and another long past the point when he was full.

When the plates were finally cleared of food for the last time, Harry had to stifle a sigh of relief. Mage's curiosity was fine for magical concerns, but it just got annoying when it came to mundane things like food.

Dumbledore stood up, silver-embroidered robes glittering in the candlelight. "To our new students," he called, "welcome! To our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you, but before we can begin, there are a few announcements I have to make.

"First, to our new students and any old students who might need reminding, the forest on the edge of school grounds is strictly off-limits.

"Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought at the shop called Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

"Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise.

"We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn—" Slughorn stood up, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big waistcoated belly casting the table below into shadow "—is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master." **(4)**

Harry smiled to himself at the whispers that broke out across the room. None of the teachers looked surprised or put out by the hissing conversations.

"Professor Snape, meanwhile," said Dumbledore, raising his voice so that it carried over all the muttering, "will be taking over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Harry tried not to grin at the loud mutterings that began at that. His eyes traveled to Snape, who looked perfectly smug as he raised a hand in acknowledgement of the applause from the Slytherin table. Harry waited until Snape's eyes inevitably traveled over to him; then he mimed raising a goblet and mouthed, smiling, _Congratulations, Professor._

It was worth anything that might come after to see that look of surprise on the new Defense teacher's face.

Dumbledore's announcements continued, now focusing on the war the Ministry had finally acknowledged. Harry ignored it, confident that he wasn't missing anything of great importance and waiting for Dumbledore to finish so he could go to bed. He wanted to meditate; today had been much too busy and he needed to get to a quiet place and reach his magic before his head exploded.

--

Bella had traced _him _to this Muggle-infested street. Now she was here, leading a few Death Eaters to do whatever it took to capture him, or at least find out where he'd gone from here.

There was a fallen Muggle woman in front of her. Bella could hear her screams and pleas. She groaned inwardly. Scrying so much had already given her a headache; why did this woman have to add to it?

"_Avada Kedavra,"_ she snapped, and the woman's annoying cries were silenced. Bella saw a little boy run out to the woman, crying "Mama! Mama!"—but it wasn't _him_. She pointed her wand at a mailbox as the boy passed it and snapped, _"Confringo."_

The mailbox exploded, taking the boy with it.

Bella continued down the street, killing every Muggle in her path, until she suddenly seemed to run into a wall.

There was nothing special about the house she had approached. There were only a few Muggles in the window, staring out, terrified. But there was a barrier that she couldn't pass. She tried all the breaking and unlocking spells she could think of; no change. She called for the other Death Eaters; still nothing.

A slow, triumphant smile spreading across her face, Bella stepped back and took out her scrying crystal. Focusing on the wall in front of her, she whispered to the stone, _"Who is it protecting? Take me to him."_

The crystal swung in a widening spiral until it suddenly pointed straight out to Bella's right with a certainty it hadn't had since she'd begun.

--

**(1)** This is an actual T-shirt (or a bumper sticker, or something). I found it in the Pagan section of the "Religious T-Shirts and Gifts" department of CafePress . com.

**(2) **Read Eh-Moo-Ee-Sheh-Rei

**(3)** Yes, I'm leaving Blaise as a boy, although just to confirm, I looked up the name online and it is a name for either gender. Therefore, until book six came out, fans could decide Blaise was either gender and have it be accurate; and IMHO, telling people they have to be canon after that long is like saying this story is wrong because (barring some unforeseen and uncontrolled plot twist) I'm not going to include the Deathly Hallows.

**(4)** That paragraph and the two before it were taken verbatim from the book.

About the will-reading scene:

This was the roadblock scene. I really DID NOT want to write it. Anyway, two of the goblins ("Yullen" and "Rolin") are named after pairings in the D. Gray-Man fandom. Just in case anyone was going to tell me, I already know. That was intentional. I got bored coming up with names for the goblins.

The line "Buy yourself some new robes, Moony" is not mine. Unfortunately, I don't remember what fic I read it in. If you know, please tell me, and I will credit that person next chapter.

A/N: I hope it wasn't too much of the book… I though Harry was different enough to make the scenes new (and interesting?)…

Feedback of all kinds is appreciated (and keeps me interested—that's not blackmail; it's true)!


	11. First Day Back

"Report

A/N: Hi! I'm back! Sorry about the wait. And sorry this chapter isn't longer.

PLEASE READ THIS NOTE: I didn't make it clear last chapter, but the Malfoys WERE NOT AT THE WILL-READING. Thus, they had zero say in what happened to their inheritance. I got a question about that and realized it wasn't clear before. (I made a slight alteration to the chapter that I hope explains it.)

Also, to answer a few questions: There will be no Horcruxes in this story. (This chapter declares Horcruxes null and void by giving an alternate explanation for the scar. Enjoy.) There will be no Deathly Hallows (unless Harry does something weird between now and the end of this story). And this is the last chapter that will follow the plot of HBP. After this, the story gets legs of its own (and uses them to kick HBP away like a soccer star scoring the winning point… wow, I have no idea where that came from. But I like it).

Disclaimer: My name is not J.K. Rowling.

On with the ficcie!

--

"Report."

The voice was high and cold as ever, the red eyes pitiless as their master leveled them upon his kneeling servant.

"My Lord, I have positively identified him." Harry recognized the voice.

_Bellatrix,_ he thought as the cold voice responded.

"And?" Voldemort asked impatiently.

"My Lord, it's the boy… Harry Potter."

"That's impossible." The Dark Lord had grown very still. Harry could feel him searching for the golden boy in his mind and threw up a shield of Liar's Palace persona. He wasn't leaving yet; the most he could do was reinforce Voldemort's belief that it couldn't be him.

"My Lord, I am sure of it." Bellatrix's voice was soft, but strong. "I traced _him_ to a Muggle street and I found wards. They matched my sense of the green fire the Malfoy boy described. Whether I trace the wards or the fire, it comes to the same thing."

"Harry Potter…" the Dark Lord said softly. Louder he said, "Plan an attack. Take the boy by whatever means necessary. My decision has not changed. Either this new threat joins us, or he dies."

"Yes, My Lord."

"You are dismissed." Bellatrix stood, bowed, and left.

Harry's eyes flew open. His nails were digging into his forehead as though trying to tear it away from his skull, and his scar felt like someone was cutting it open with a red-hot knife. It took him a moment to remember why he was staring _up_ at the canopy of his bed.

_Oh, right,_ he remembered. He'd meditated lying down so if anyone opened the curtains, they wouldn't flip out when he didn't look like he was asleep.

That problem solved, he realized that his scar really was hurting, especially with his nails drawing blood. He pulled his nails out of his skin, but kept his hand over the area, as though it would hurt less if the scar wasn't exposed to air.

Sitting up and breathing slowly, Harry asked his magic softly what he was supposed to do about this. It hurt so badly he could barely see, even with his essence vision unfiltered. Following the first thought he had, he stood and headed to the Gryffindor boys' restroom.

His vision was slowly starting to clear by the time he got through the door, enough to see where the lamp was and turn it on. He flinched from the sudden light, but headed to the mirror as his vision continued adjusting. His head didn't hurt so much anymore. Actually, it was really kind of an itch…

He reached the mirror and removed his hand from his face. Eyes that had turned a flickering, shifting, wavering green widened.

After spending a summer away from food, he was even thinner than he'd been before, and the fact that no one had noticed (except maybe Hermione) stunned him. His eyes were no longer a single color green; now the color ranged from Killing Curse green to emerald to jade, flickering like the lightning his magic so often took. His skin had grown so pale it almost matched the Dark Lord's; but the most noticeable difference was his scar.

Or, to be more specific, the lack thereof.

His scar was no longer on his face. Slowly he became aware, through the insistent itching of his right hand, what had happened to it.

Almost dreading what he would see, he raised his hand and looked at his palm.

There was a lightning bolt there, sure enough—but it wasn't a scar. It was more like a cut, like someone had cut into his hand and kept it from ever healing. The skin around the edges appeared to have healed, and it seemed that this 'cut' had not even bled. There was only blackness in the space between the edges of his skin. As he watched, too stunned to move, green light flickered in that blackness, in time with the beating of his heart.

He sat down hard on the floor. Looking at his relocated scar, he could see the magic in his blood… What the hell was going on?

His magic explained.

When Voldemort had tried to kill Harry, the failed curse had opened a crude doorway to his magic in the form of his famous lightning-bolt scar. That open door to his magic had been what allowed the impossibly strong connection between Harry and Voldemort to form; and the fact that it had been created by wizardry—_failed_ wizardry, at that—was what had allowed Voldemort to manage the link easily while Harry had no control at all. Now, his magic had fixed it, moving the door to his hand (which was more convenient, as it would allow them to fake using a wand easily) and altering it so the fabric of it was mage-made. Harry could feel the triumph emanating from his magic as it informed him that this was the greatest aid to his magic he had gained thus far, including his entire stock of books from Knockturn Alley.

Feeling somewhat dazed, Harry stood and headed back to bed. There was no reason to stay up anymore.

--

Harry got up before any of his year-mates the next day. He needed the time to get ready—or, if you wanted to be blunt (as his magic always did), _disguised._

The first problems were his weight (his cheekbones now stood out prominently) and his skin. His magic told him it had been disguising his figure, skin and eyes, but that unfortunately, moving the doorway to his magic required him to redo the glamours. When his scar had been on his face, his magic could apply as much of a glamour as it wanted without a problem, but now…

Harry dressed quickly and went to the restroom. He didn't really know how glamours worked; none of the books he'd read had gone into detail on the process of constructing them; but he was going to figure it out. His magic could help him.

Harry looked into the mirror. There was no way to change the appearance of his eyes without constructing an illusion that would make him blind as long as he wore it; but, using essentially the same technique that had filtered his essence vision, he could change the way other people saw his eyes.

Taking off his glasses, Harry held his right hand over the frames and called on his magic. Threads of emerald-green lightning jumped down from his hand to the glasses. _That they may see what they expect to see, nothing more, nothing less,_ his magic whispered to the illusion in its wordless language.

When the green web sank into the glasses and vanished from view, Harry set them down on the counter and looked into the mirror. What could he do about his skin color and sudden lack of a scar? How did a glamour like that work?

Before he could even decide how to begin, his magic began instructing him. He raised his right hand and put his palm against his forehead, lining up the new doorway with where the old scar used to be. When he took his hand away, there was a perfect image of the famous lightning-bolt scar.

His skin was only a bit more complex. Harry put his hands together and let his magic spread from the point of contact, across his skin, along his arms, until it coated his body in a thin illusion that faded from view to show his normal, tanned skin.

_Perfect,_ he decided, smiling to himself and heading down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Breakfast today provoked only slightly less insanity than the feast the night before had done. Harry was, once again, relieved by the distraction that was provided this time by the arrival of the post.

Hedwig was not among the owls flying down with letters clutched in their beaks, but a barn owl bearing an official-looking scroll landed in front of him and held out its leg with an imperious _hoot._

Harry took the letter, trying and failing to read the convolutedly twisting letters that apparently addressed it to him. As the barn owl left, he slid a finger under the wax and broke it, opening the scroll.

_Mr. Potter,_ the note read in script that detangled itself once he opened the scroll,

_It was included in Sirius Orion Black's will that if Narcissa and Draco Malfoy were unable or unwilling to attend, this message was to be delivered to you on the first day that there was a reasonable chance you would encounter one or both of them._

The rest of the letter was in Sirius' handwriting.

_Prongslet,_

_I know it must have surprised you to learn that I included the Malfoys in my will, but I need you to listen._

_A few months ago, Narcissa came to me, begging me to forbid her as Lord Black from allowing Draco to become a Death Eater. As I (in my admittedly Gryffindor-tinged mind) understood it, the perversion of Slytherin house has frustrated her and driven her to the decision that Voldemort's path is not the one she wants for her son._

_Make no mistake—if the truth were known, Narcissa would be in Azkaban; and she has no regrets or desire to leave Voldemort. But you know Draco better than I do, almost as well as Narcissa does; and you know that he is no killer. Accepting the Mark would be suicide for him. Narcissa can stall Voldemort at least until Draco comes of age, but by that time there must be something stopping him from becoming a Death Eater, something besides Narcissa's behind-the-scenes coaching._

_I had no real power to issue such a command during my life—Voldemort would ask how I even knew Draco was considering taking the Mark—but wizard etiquette dictates that no one may question a wizard's last will, with the only exceptions being in the case of suspicion that said wizard may have been forced to write it._

_This is the will that was given to Narcissa: protection for Draco, should he need it; and as my final act as Lord Black, an injunction forbidding Draco from becoming a Death Eater unless the new Lord Black should decide otherwise._

_I'm sorry I couldn't stick around longer, Prongslet._

_Love,_

_Sirius_

Harry read the note twice and then folded it tightly and slid it into his pocket. Draco was no killer; that was most certainly true. But that was not the phrase that stood out in his mind.

_The perversion of Slytherin house…_

Just like the Sorting Hat, Narcissa believed that the Slytherins had been categorized into a group they did not belong in. What were Slytherins, according to the Hat?

Ambitious.

Ruthless.

Cunning.

But "ruthless" did not mean "purebloods first"; "cunning" did not mean "pro-Voldemort"… and "ambition" was certainly not intended to group people together whose greatest ambition was to lie down and take orders from a man who was more snake than human.

The _perversion_… When and how had it started? Had it been so since Salazar himself had left the school, or had Voldemort made the House the way it was?

Harry's head was starting to hurt. He put the thoughts away and returned his focus to the world around him.

McGonagall was coming down the table handing out schedules. Harry barely listened to her praise of his marks and the classes he was taking, merely waiting until she handed him the schedule and heading off to his first class—Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Severus Snape.

Snape had completely redecorated the classroom. The pictures on the walls depicted all manner of horrors, some of which Harry found surprising wizardry could produce. Certainly wizards never made the Dementors, and the Patronus Charm was eerily close to magecraft for wizards to get. The Dementors… How did _they _happen? Harry asked the question of his magic, but didn't get an answer before Snape came in and everyone (including Harry) sat down.

Harry heard part of the talk, the part that compared the Dark Arts to the hydra of Greek mythology; but for the most part, he enjoyed observing the pictures on the walls until the topic of Inferi was brought up by some genius in the back row.

"Potter," Snape said. Harry's eyes flicked over to his teacher; he made some attempt to look attentive. "What is the difference between a ghost and an Inferius?"

Harry hesitated a moment. What the hell was an Inferius, anyway? But before he could even open his mouth to say "I don't know", his magic had supplied him with the answer.

"Essence," he said. "Ghosts… _are_ essence. Inferi have none."

Snape looked unnerved by something in Harry's gaze, but he kept his composure. "Essence is an overused word that lacks meaning for the spread of meanings one can find," he said. "Now, if someone has a more _useful _answer—"

"Aura." Harry couldn't let this go, even when Snape's gaze took a turn toward murderous. "Imprint," he continued. "Atman. Magical fingerprint. _That_ is what is meant by essence." Harry raised his eyes to his teacher's, a clear challenge in them.

"Five points from Gryffindor for interrupting," Snape snapped before moving on to a talk about wordless spells.

Harry had to try very hard to stop himself from laughing at the idea of being _taught_ wordless magic at this point in his self-education, but he managed. When Snape told them to pair off, he waited until Ron asked him to join him and partnered with him.

"You are to attempt to jinx your partner without words," Snape explained, "and your partner will attempt to block your jinx, also without words. I will tell you when to switch roles. Begin."

Harry watched Ron, waiting for the redhead to give up and mutter his jinx; but Ron was determined this time, either to impress Hermione or to succeed at magic; it didn't matter. He refused to say a word, so Harry was left waiting for a spell that would never come.

"Here," Snape said after several minutes of this had passed, pushing Ron out of the way, "_I'll_ do it." He pointed his wand at Harry; Harry could see the magic rush down from his aura to his wand and launch itself at him—

"_NO!"_ Harry yelled. A fiery green barrier sprung up between him and Snape; Snape's spell vanished harmlessly into the fire. The barrier had dissolved back into Harry before Harry realized why everyone was staring at him.

His wand was down at his side. What should have been an invisible Shield Charm had become a mage-crafted wall of fire that had swallowed Snape's curse. And he had managed an essentially wordless spell less than ten minutes into the lesson, before even Hermione had.

Snape was the first to snap himself out of his daze. "What did I say about wordless spells, Mr. Potter?"

"I didn't say the incantation," Harry replied, staring at the air a few inches in front of his professor's face. Relenting, he added, "_Sir._"

Snape's eyes had turned dangerous. Behind him, Harry could see Hermione staring at him, eyes wide with fear.

--

After the rest of class, which passed without any more incidents, Harry, Ron and Hermione headed down to lunch.

They were stopped, on the way, by Jack Sloper.

"Hey," he said, grabbing Harry's arm after almost passing him. "I've got a note for you from Snape."

Harry took the tightly furled scroll and opened it. It was the date and time for his first Occlumency lesson of the year—that night, immediately after dinner, in Snape's office.

"What is it?" Ron asked.

"Nothing," Harry told him, stuffing it in his pocket. "Let's go to lunch."

He hung back a moment as they headed off without him. The thought of Occlumency lessons that night, combined with the revelations of that morning, had shaken him. Would his glamour hold up even when he wasn't the one in control? Would Snape's intrusions into his mind shatter his ability to hold his illusion in place?

He couldn't deal with Hermione and Ron's bickering right now. He leaned against the railing and closed his eyes. _Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor I go,_ he chanted silently, praying his glamour would hold.

"Harry! What are you waiting for? Let's go!" Ron's voice broke into 'Harry's' thoughts. The Golden Boy opened his eyes and looked down at his best friend.

"Right," he said with a smile. "Sorry. Just thinking about Defense." Which was true, for him.

'Harry' spent lunch chatting with his friends, apparently unaware of how much more he had eaten than he was actually hungry for. Harry watched the boy intently from his shelter in their mind, waiting for him to slip. He wanted any mistakes to happen now, and not when Snape was digging through their mind.

"So Harry," Hermione asked at one point, and Harry tensed in his hidden room; he knew what she was going to ask and wasn't sure 'Harry' would even know what she was talking about. "What was that shield you used in Defense?"

Harry watched. If he had been in control of their body he wouldn't have been breathing. He should have provided the Golden Boy with that memory and an explanation.

But the Golden Boy shrugged. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I guess maybe I'm finally starting to live up to everyone's expectations for me."

_But you don't even remember that,_ Harry protested, stopping his thought at the door of his observation room. _How can you answer at all?_ Then, as the Golden Boy's fear trickled through into the room, he realized, and almost burst out laughing. 'Harry' remembered his conversation with Ginny from the previous year. He was afraid, again, that he was being possessed and was a weapon.

_All right, 'Harry',_ Harry laughed in their mind. _That works for me._

--

'Harry' remained worried through the free period that came after lunch, and was still worried when he entered Slughorn's Potions class for the first time.

Harry had been in control through DADA, but he decided let the Golden Boy lead them through this class. He wouldn't have time after dinner to provide 'Harry' with falsified memories of this day; it would be easier just to let him take over and form at least some memories for himself.

His resolution held through Slughorn's explanation of the potions on his desk, and of the contest over Felix Felicis he was holding that class. He let the Golden Boy find the page in the book he didn't remember buying, get the ingredients they'd gotten at stores he wouldn't have gone into on his own, and set up the fire without any magecraft interference. But when 'Harry' started actually making the potion, Harry found himself incapable of staying out of it.

'Harry's' first difficulty was in cutting the sopophorous bean. The bean was slippery and tough, and cutting seemed only to make it shrivel and refuse to release any juice. Finally giving up, Harry rolled his mental eyes and sent out a shiver of magic through the door of his observation room, toward the bean.

'Harry' blinked and his eyes widened as the shiver, the magical equivalent of asking politely, caused the bean to pour juice from the cuts the Golden Boy had already made. Looking around as though afraid someone might have noticed his unexpected success, 'Harry' scooped the bean juice into the cauldron. His glamoured eyes widened when the potion turned the exact shade of lilac described in the book.

Harry grinned, safe in his hidden room. This was going to be _fun._

--

Forty minutes and one reward of Felix Felicis later, 'Harry' headed down to dinner. In his mind he was mildly panicked over what had happened in Potions, but aloud he only said that he'd "gotten lucky". What else could he say? It hadn't been his skills that had gotten him the bottle of potion that now rested in the pocket of his robes? Because _that_ would go over wonderfully.

Speaking of which, Harry didn't want the bottle to be crushed if (when) they fell again in Occlumency. When their arm swung in front of the pocket that held the potion, he sent out a tiny tendril of magic from their relocated scar and moved the potion to their schoolbag. Let the Golden Boy panic. That potion might come in handy one day—like if hell ever froze over.

When they reached the Gryffindor table, they were stopped by a call of "Harry"! 'Harry' turned. Seeing Katie Bell running toward them, and noticing the scarlet Quaffle pin on her robes, Harry stepped out of his shelter and took over again.

"Harry, glad I caught you," Katie said. She looked out of breath; Harry wondered how long she'd been trying to catch up to him. "I wanted to tell you. Quidditch tryouts are this Friday, and I want you to be there to—"

"No," Harry interrupted.

Katie blinked. "What?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, trying to sound sincere. "But I won't be playing Quidditch this year."

He could see Ron and Hermione staring at him. Katie looked so far in shock he wondered if she was going to throw up.

"What?" Katie finally managed to whisper. "Why not? You're the best there is."

But Harry had come up with an explanation (_excuse,_ his magic would have said) weeks ago, in his Liar's Palace. "Voldemort's back," he said. "Even the Ministry's finally admitted it. And everyone is—has been, my whole life—looking to me to lead the charge. Under the circumstances, I think there are more important things I could be doing than playing Quidditch."

Katie's mouth opened and closed several times, looking like someone trying to figure out how to chew gum. "Oh," she finally said in a voice even softer than the one she'd used before, and turned and left.

Ron was protesting, and Hermione was suspicious, but Harry ignored them both, sitting down at the Gryffindor table and starting to put food on his plate. He expertly slid the memory of the past few minutes into its proper place in his Liar's Palace, carefully adjusting it so the emotions would read as real to any prying eyes; then he faded back and let the Golden Boy take over again.

After that, the only thing he had to do was make sure everything in the Liar's Palace was running smoothly before they had to head to Occlumency.

--

A/N: There's a poll on my profile, just FYI. I'm trying to devote most of my attention to original stories (original stories? What's that?), so I won't be updating as much. Ergo, there is a poll on my profile to determine which stories I work on. (It's not the only factor. Inspiration and interest are two very important others. And what my onee-chan bugs me about doesn't hurt either.)

ALSO on my profile is the full summary for this story. It is surrounded by spoiler warnings and won't be put up as the official summary until chapter 15 FOR A REASON! But if you want to know what I'm planning and don't mind spoilers, you go right ahead.

Edit: I lied. It will be put up chapter 14. What was planned to be chapter 12 turned out to be very short, so I'm combining it with what was planned to be 13 and moving the schedule up one chapter.

And I've decided something about the pairing. I've decided to let Harry decide, since he's done so well so far. (He may even decide not to choose anyone.) Although since I've decided I don't like the idea of "sharing" a person, and since I got no objection from Harry, Harry/many is off the table.

Feedback is belovely-loved! (Yes, I made that word up. Yes, I can do that.)


	12. The Worldview Room

AN: Behold, I live!

Um... Apparently I already had this finished. Yeah. And I was saving it for something special. Or something. Realizing I had it finished is pretty special, right? Right? Heh...

Feedback is the food of the gods (and the muse)!

---

Both Harrys were nervous when finally they stopped eating and headed to Snape's office. 'Harry' was worried Snape would yell at him for not practicing over the summer (Harry had to laugh at that); Harry was just worried Snape would break into the room where he was, or see some memory that was missing and know what he'd done.

"You're late," Snape's voice told them when they knocked.

"Sorry, sir," 'Harry' said as he entered. "I came right after dinner, like you said."

"I assume you didn't practice at all over the summer," Snape said, eyes narrowing and a hint of a smug 'I-know-you-better-than-you-do' smirk tugging at one side of his mouth even as annoyance crept into his tone. When 'Harry' looked away and didn't answer, Snape nodded and stood. "Well, we'll see if we can't change that habit." He pulled out his wand as he spoke, in a move that Harry recognized now as completely superfluous.

_Nope,_ Harry thought delightedly. _The Golden Boy won't have any chances to practice, and I don't need it. We're all going to get horribly sick of this very quickly._

Snape pointed his wand at 'Harry', not even bothering to give his usual "clear your mind" speech. _"Legilimens!"_ he snapped.

Harry silenced his mental voice as he watched the memories flash past, mixed images from Muggle primary school, summers with the Weasleys, and his years at Hogwarts—all selected because they were so very believable. It was impossible to recognize a mind as fake when the memories had this kind of range.

After a few minutes Snape touched on a particular memory, one from Harry's fourth year. Everyone had thought he was a liar and a cheat at the time, even Ron. Harry watched the memory of himself throw a _Potter Stinks_ badge at the memory of Ron, interested now. The Harry-memory was furious, meaning 'Harry' was being flooded with that same rage. Would that—?

Apparently so, as 'Harry' woke up a moment later on the floor, having successfully thrown Snape out of his 'mind' through sheer anger. Harry felt a smile split his mental face. The properties of emotion and willpower in Occlumency and Legilimency were so _very_ close to those of magecraft that he had to wonder if there was a law against the lesson Snape was currently giving the Gryffindor Golden Boy.

Snape's expression was a strange mixture of amusement, anger, and a hint of wonder. His lectures on ridding oneself of emotion returned in a flash to Harry, and he thought perhaps Snape hadn't seen anger have such an effect before.

"Again," he said after a moment.

'Harry' fought back a groan and stood.

Harry composed himself, silenced his thoughts, and returned to watching, determined to catch (if not fix) any flaws in his Liar's Palace before Snape realized they were there.

---

Bella had been given everything she would need to carry out this mission—command over as many Death Eaters as she deemed necessary being the most valuable asset. Keeping her position behind the scenes, she asked her Lord to get the dates of the next Hogsmeade weekend from Snape. Even Snape, trust him though she didn't, wouldn't give the Dark Lord a false date—or dare to ask why such information was necessary.

Next she chose her fellows. Narcissa was her first and easiest choice. The witch was rich and unfailingly loyal, and even after her idiot husband had gotten himself chucked in Azkaban, no one questioned her presence or intentions in the crowded but blessedly all-wizard streets of Hogsmeade.

The next choice was harder, not because she was undecided, but because she hated working with this individual and avoided it at every chance she got, using whatever excuse she had. Finally, though, she approached Fenrir Greyback. She managed to get through the conversation without gagging, but she didn't think there was any illusion between them that either of them would tolerate the other if Voldemort hadn't ordered it. Bella was a pure-blood and proud of it; Fenrir only followed Voldemort because he wanted to cause maximum damage and Voldemort helped him target higher-profile wizards.

Finally, she found Rookwood and told him to be ready. He wasn't the most ideal for the job, but his experience in espionage meant that his skills at not being seen unless he wanted to be were adequate for the job.

Fellows selected, Bella prepared to kidnap the Boy-Who-Lived.

---

After a few weeks of Occlumency lessons, Harry relaxed. It was clear to him by that point that Snape couldn't hear his thoughts from his observation room, no matter how far into his Liar's palace he managed to wander. The realization left Harry free to think about other things even as he watched for any possible flaws in the Golden Boy's mind.

His favorite topic of thought was Slytherin. He'd never thought about the House before more than it took to suspect its members and beat its team at Quidditch. Now, though, he had a much more immediate connection to the Slytherin house—he'd had his talk with Draco the morning after receiving Sirius' letter.

The approach of the Boy-Who-Lived toward the Slytherin House table had stirred a trail of whispers and rumors, but Harry had ignored them and the people who called his name until he reached Draco.

---

"_Draco," he said. The blond turned to see who it was. Immediately a sneer formed on his face, and he began to turn away._

"_Draco," Harry repeated. "Could I speak to you?"_

_Malfoy turned again. "What do you want, Potter?" he demanded._

"_Only to speak with you," Harry insisted. His hands were in front of him, right hand clasping his left wrist, so that his ring was visible. He knew Draco knew who he was; everyone in the Black family would have been notified within twenty-four hours of the will-reading. "In private."_

_Draco glanced down at Harry's left hand, apparently making sure he _had_ to go with Harry, before nodding and standing. "Lead the way."_

_Harry headed for an unused classroom on the first floor. When he and Draco were both inside and the door was shut against unwelcome listeners, he looked at Draco. "Draco, have you taken the Dark Mark?"_

_Draco blinked. Whatever he'd been expecting, it certainly hadn't been that. "No," he finally answered. "The Dark Lord won't let an underage wizard so far into his inner circle."_

_Harry nodded. He'd expected as much. "Then I have a command for you, passed on to me from Sirius Black, former Head of the Black family."_

_Draco looked uneasy, and Harry had the feeling he knew what was coming. "What?" he finally asked._

"_Don't take the Dark Mark." It was simple enough to say, but Harry could see terror starting to stir in Draco's eyes. "If you take the Mark, you will be removed from the Black family, and the magic you inherited from your mother's line will be stripped from you." The threat was ridiculous to a mage, to one who understood that the inheritance was an 'activated' essence rather than any unique substance, but it was sufficient to bring most wizards to heel. "You're not a killer, Draco," he continued, more quietly. "You don't want the Mark. Believe me when I say you wouldn't last with it on your arm."_

"_I could handle it," Draco said confidently, arrogantly, just as he always answered. For a split second Harry lifted his glasses, letting Draco see past his glamour and seeing, himself, into Draco's soul._

"_Ah," he said, replacing his glasses and almost smiling. "You've already been assigned a Death Eater's mission. Draco," he told the boy, "the injunction is not the only thing I have to inform you of. If refusing to take the Mark, or any other action connected to that refusal, would put you in any danger, I will protect you, as Head of the Black family. I will protect your mother, should she need it. Gringotts has set up an account with financial support for you, should the day come when you need that protection; and I always have a safe place for you to stay."_

"_Are you done yet?" But Harry could that Draco had started to relax again. The promise of safety had evened out the threat of Voldemort's wrath. And even if he didn't know what Harry had learned over the summer, Voldemort wouldn't force him to give up what was at least half his magic._

_Harry nodded. "Yes." Opening the door, he motioned for Draco to go first. "Shall we return to the Great—"_

---

Harry was snapped out of his own memories by the sound of someone knocking on the door of one of the Golden Boy's.

Harry focused quickly. What had Snape found (besides one of 'Harry's' many locked doors)? What room would he see if he somehow managed to get through the door?

His magic told him to calm down. There was no reason to worry; Snape could never get through a locked door in a Liar's Palace; it was magecraft, and he was a wizard—

His magic hadn't even finished convincing him it was safe when Snape somehow turned the doorknob and entered the room.

He'd entered the Worldview Room, and Harry could see the shock in his eyes. The room he'd entered had four banners, one in each House's colors, displaying what Harry had understood each House's worldview to be. Such a room, empty of all unrelated thoughts, in which Snape had taken on an avatar image of himself, displayed an organization that the Golden Boy could never have managed. Harry started to panic, becoming deaf to the voice of his magic; if Snape got out of this room, he would keep looking, and he would open every locked door, and he would realize the organizing Harry had done, and Harry would be caught—

Harry ran from his shelter, his avatar image's feet pounding down the hallways of his Liar's Palace until he reached Snape and hit him with a wave of magic, throwing him through the wall of the Worldview Room and out of Harry's mind.

Harry's eyes opened wide, vision sharp to every detail in the ceiling above him. His glasses had fallen off.

"What was that, Potter?" he could hear Snape ask. His eyes flicked down, almost making contact with Snape's before he jerked them away, frantically looking for his glasses.

His glamour was in his glasses.

He froze for a split second as that sudden realization came to him.

The glamour over his eyes was in his glasses, and his glasses were gone—Snape had just seen what his eyes really looked like. He'd seen the shifting, flickering colors of his eyes and his magic; he knew exactly what Harry's glamour concealed, and he knew Harry had a glamour, and he would realize that there were other things Harry was hiding—

His glasses were on the floor by the leg of Snape's desk. He flung out his hand and the glasses flew his palm, but then he realized that he'd just shown Snape the cut on his palm that had replaced his scar—

He jammed his glasses on his face, ignoring whatever it was Snape was saying. He turned and ran toward the door, just desperate to get out. He reached the door, but it was locked; he gripped it with his right hand and sent a furious, uncontrolled burst of magic into the door. The knob exploded, the lock with it, and he shoved open the door and ran out of the room, down the hall, up the stairs to the Gryffindor common room—

No. Not the common room. He stopped suddenly. Hermione was in the common room. She knew he'd been practicing with magecraft. She would know what he'd done.

But there were other people in the common room. Hermione had proven that summer that she didn't want to confront him in front of other people. He'd be safe in the common room.

Half a second to decide; Snape would be following him by now. Harry hurtled up the nearest staircase toward the common room, half-snapped-half-shouted the password ("Lionheart") to the Fat Lady, climbed through the portrait hole as fast as he could, ran across the room heedless of the stares he was getting, and fell into an armchair near the fire.

Snape couldn't get in here. He was safe now. Harry closed his eyes and tried to relax, to reconnect with his magic so he could regain his peaceful mage's calm.

"Harry?"

Harry's eyes snapped open, focusing on the speaker. It was Ginny.

"Hi, Ginny," he said, smiling in the way he'd smiled all summer. Ginny smiled back nervously. "What's up?"

"Well, um…" Ginny was pale; her hands were clasped in front of her, but Harry could still see them shaking.

"Please, sit down," Harry said, motioning to the seat next to him. Ginny sat across from him. "What is it?" he asked. His panic had settled slightly. He knew what to do in this situation. This was what his magic had predicted, what he'd planned for. Plans were good. He knew how to follow a plan.

"It's, um…" Ginny finally looked up at him. "I'm flattered, really, Harry, that you've been paying attention to me like you have, but…"

"But what?" Harry watched her, wide-eyed, waiting for her to say it.

Ginny took a deep breath. "I, um… I don't like you that way."

"Right," Harry said. "Of course. I should have thought. Dean—"

"No, it's, it's not him either," Ginny said, staring intently at the space between her feet. "Actually, I broke up with Dean today."

Harry frowned. "Then… is there someone else? Another guy—"

"No, no, there's no other guy." Ginny's hands were shaking so hard she clutched at her robes trying to get them to stop.

"I don't understand, Ginny," Harry said, watching her, letting her know she wasn't getting out of this one without saying it. "I thought you liked me—"

"Oh, I like you a lot," Ginny agreed. "As a friend. But, well, that way…"

"You liked me before," Harry pressed. "What's changed? I mean—"

"I DON'T LIKE GUYS!"

The words burst from Ginny's mouth like they'd been launched from a slingshot, one that had been wound ever tighter by Ginny's years-long denial. As soon as she'd said it, she clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide and horrified. Her face was so white she might have died of a heart attack in those moments; her fingers seemed determined to take off the skin of her face before they let her say another word.

Harry looked around the common room. Dean was watching them—Harry got the feeling he'd been watching for a while, getting steadily more jealous—and had dropped the Gobstone he'd just won to the floor. Seamus looked like he wasn't sure whether to comfort Dean or mock him.

And there was _Ron,_ just entering the common room and now looking scandalized. The portrait wasn't fully closed behind him, and Harry was sure that everyone up and down the hall would have heard Ginny's outburst, if they didn't hear the whispered conversations that were now breaking out all around the common room.

And Parvati and Lavender were standing together, watching Ginny and Harry and clearly wondering whether this was a joke or their new gossip material. Harry knew when Ginny's eyes had landed on the two gossips because a choked sob escaped from between her fingers and she ran from the common room, pushing past Ron and out the portrait hole.

Harry watched her, wondering if this had really been such a good idea.

---

Ginny ran, stumbling and half-blind from tears. Finally she dropped her hands from her mouth so she could use them for balance as she ran down stairs, up more stairs, not at all sure where she was going… She was in an unfamiliar part of the castle now, and, lost, she finally stopped and ran into a girl's bathroom on the sixth floor.

Her sobs were quiet now as she sat down under one of the sinks, but tears spilled down her face and soaked her robes. What had she been thinking? Why had she even confronted Harry? She should have known it would end with her saying _that._ Now by morning the whole school would know, because Parvati and Lavender had heard her; her brothers would know, because Ron would owl home and Mrs. Weasley would owl Bill and Charlie (the twins, having eyes everywhere, didn't need a letter to find out something like this); and the boys she'd dated—oh, Merlin, they'd be _humiliated._ That was half the reason she'd never wanted to come out (was that the right phrase? Wizards didn't even have a word for it); she'd _liked_ all the boys she'd dated; she just hadn't _like_ liked them.

The door to the bathroom opened, and Ginny heard quiet the sound of footsteps. There were two sets, one catlike and one only a little louder. Wiping her eyes, she saw the little sphinx cub she'd met the first day of classes, and not two steps behind her, Luna.

"Hello, Emu," Ginny said when the sphinx cub sprang into her lap and nuzzled against her face. She almost laughed when Emu started to lick the tears off her face.

"I've heard animals are very comforting," Luna said as she sat beside Ginny. "They're even used in some Muggle therapy. And sphinx cubs, if you can tame them, are extremely empathic."

"I think that goes for any baby magical creature you can tame," Ginny replied, petting the sphinx cub.

Luna gently, almost hesitantly, ran her fingers through Ginny's hair. "What's wrong?"

Ginny swallowed hard, trying not to start crying again. "Harry's been flirting with me since summer," she half-whispered.

Luna's fingers stopped for a moment before resuming their soothing motion. "I think I'm missing something. Why is that a bad thing?"

"I don't like him that way," Ginny explained. "I tried to tell him that, but he kept pressing, and…" She swallowed. "I just came out to my entire House."

"Came out?" Luna's eyes had gotten even bigger than normal.

"As a lesbian," she finished in a whisper.

"_Oh._" Was it Ginny's imagination, or was there a hint of happiness in that word? "Why does that make you cry?"

Ginny looked at the floor between her shoes, trying to put it into words. "I've dated a lot of boys," she said. "And they'll all be teased…"

"Boys tease other boys just because a girl breaks up with them," Luna said, with a look in her eye that told Ginny she knew Ginny already knew that. "What else?" Her hand had moved to rubbing circles on Ginny's back. It occurred to Ginny that this was the most physical contact she could remember having with the other girl, including the time when Luna had helped her mount a thestral.

"People will make fun of me," she said. "My brothers will make fun of me, and girls will all think I'm hitting on them just by saying 'hi'."

"In my experience, guys are happy to talk about what girls are hot," Luna said with a smile. "I wouldn't worry about guys teasing you. If you like girls, join in those conversations like one of the guys. First they'll be stunned, but then they'll get used to it. And most of the girls who think you're flirting with them by saying 'hi' think way too much of themselves and would completely deserve it if you told them they're not that attractive. What's really bothering you?"

This time, Ginny managed all of two seconds before she started crying again. Luna wrapped her arms around her shoulders, and Ginny leaned into the embrace, finally admitting her worry. "I'm a _pure-blood,_" she choked out through her sobs. "If I was Muggle-born or even half-blood, it wouldn't be an issue, but pure-bloods are supposed to produce more pure-bloods. Every pure-blood who marries someone of the same sex means one less witch or wizard in the next generation. Any other witch or wizard could come out, no problem, but I… the group that doesn't want me to be a lesbian is a lot bigger than just my family or my ex-boyfriends."

"Ah. Yes, that is a slight problem," Luna agreed. "But Ginny, you have to ask yourself: Do _you_ mind not liking guys?"

Ginny weighed it in her mind. She'd fought this for so long the obvious answer was "yes". But the memory of Fleur taking her breath away, and the shocking realization that the boys she dated _did_ feel something, that there was a reason why she hadn't, that she _could_… And the warm feeling of Luna's fingers running through her hair, Luna's arms around her now…

"No," she finally said. "I would have minded if I didn't like anyone, but I don't mind liking girls."

She could tell Luna was smiling. "Then where's the problem?"

"There isn't one." Ginny hesitated a moment. "But I still don't want to go back to Gryffindor Tower tonight."

"For that, my dear Ginny, there is a simple cure." Luna stood and reached down a hand to help Ginny up. "Follow me."

It was a fairly short walk from where they were to the hallway that housed the Room of Requirement. Luna walked in front of the stretch of wall three times and opened the door that appeared out of nowhere. Ginny followed her in and couldn't help smiling.

The Room had been transformed into an apartment with two queen-sized beds with royal blue satin sheets, bookcases with all the schoolbooks and materials they might possibly need to do their homework, an attached bathroom and dressing room, closets that held every size and style of pajamas imaginable, desks to do work, and even a cushion for Emuishere. Ginny turned to Luna, unsure what to say.

"I thought I'd stay with you tonight," Luna explained hurriedly, "since you were so sad; but never let me be called presumptuous; I said two beds."

Ginny's smile grew. "Thank you, Luna," she said, and hugged the girl tightly.

"You're welcome," Luna said, "but the Room did…"

"For everything, I mean," Ginny interrupted. She carried Emu, who still hadn't let her go, over to the cushion and laid her down.

Luna smiled. **(1)**

---

Harry slept that night.

By midnight, he still hadn't managed to regain his focus and calm, and hadn't reached his meditative state. Exhausted from his panic and from the questions that had followed Ginny's outburst, he was asleep before he even realized he'd given up on meditation.

But he didn't dream, and he woke up the next morning feeling not at all refreshed. He hadn't slept in so long, his body wasn't sure what to do, and he'd kicked off his covers at least three times only to wake up from the cold and try again to reach his calm before falling asleep an hour later.

When he woke up the next morning, the others began pelting him with questions, questions that were too loud but he was powerless to quiet. Dean's questions were the most frantic, because he'd been dating Ginny and was the most affected by her revelation.

Harry tried his best too ignore them all as he headed downstairs, but the questions didn't stop. A girl from Ginny's year stopped them on their way down to the common room to tell them Ginny hadn't come back to the Tower the night before, which only made Ron panic and start demanding to know what Harry had done with his sister.

Harry's lip started bleeding from how hard he'd been digging his teeth into it.

But when they reached the Great Hall, others approached, new people who hadn't heard exactly what was going on and would settle for hearing from Dean or Ron. Harry was able to escape and sit at the end of the table, where no one bothered him.

In fact, after his House-mates had found other people to talk to and share the story with, no one even spoke to him.

Hermione sat across from him when she came downstairs, but she only watched him suspiciously and said nothing. Harry returned her gaze with a confused one of his own before turning to the food that was laid out on the table.

The taste of the food assaulted him, though he'd been eating for weeks. A single bite of bacon made him gulp a glass of water before he could manage another. The intensity of the taste, even of the toast (which, being made of white bread, had next to no taste for most people) made his eyes water, but no one noticed. It was like wearing his Invisibility Cloak, only a thousand times more uncomfortable.

Finally breakfast vanished, Harry was free of the assault on his senses, and it was time for a free period.

Hermione followed him up to the library, still silent, and sat with him at a table in the back of the room. She took out her books and materials, but Harry found that he couldn't remember what homework they had.

Glancing down, Harry searched through the files in his House of the Mind. It was strange being there without his magic; the room, once so friendly, seemed a daunting maze without the help of his magic to guide him. Finally he found the file that contained his assignments for that weekend, and found that they were done.

Confused, he took out his parchment and looked through until he found his papers. Sure enough, there they were, each one at least half again as long as it needed to be and in writing as small as Hermione's.

Harry sat back in his chair. According to the file in his mind, he'd done each of these papers the night they were assigned, but they were completely unfamiliar to him now. He flipped through more of his papers and saw "O's" and "E's" at the top of his graded papers—but none of them were familiar. According to the dates on the papers, they'd been assigned over a stretch of months, and probably handed back weeks after they'd been handed in. Halloween had come and gone. Christmas break started in a few weeks, after a (_second_) Hogsmeade weekend.

He'd been absent for months of his life.

"Harry?"

Harry looked up at Hermione. She looked concerned, and he realized with a jolt that he was crying. "What's wrong?" she asked.

He shook his head and closed his eyes. He had to get back to his magic, _now._

---

But some part of him refused to return to the calm in which he'd passed the first two-thirds of the term, and the free ended before he'd managed even to meditate for longer than a few minutes at a time. Giving up, he put his books back into his bag and headed to double Defense.

He could feel Snape's eyes on him when he entered the classroom, watching him and waiting to see some change since the revelations of the night before. It occurred to him that he didn't know when he was supposed to go to his next Occlumency lesson. Maybe he wouldn't have any more. That would be a weight off his shoulders; he wasn't sure he could go into his Liar's Palace at this point.

Snape gave a lecture about trigger-effect spells—all Harry got of that was that "trigger-effect" could just as well have been replaced with "land mine"—before splitting them up into pairs. Harry expected Ron to partner with him, but Ron turned to Neville. Hermione walked over to Harry with a determined expression on her face.

Harry could still feel Snape's eyes on him. Had the former Potions master been watching him all year, or was it just because of last night's Occlumency lesson? Would it be paranoid of him to think that the man had been watching him all year? Or would it be safer than thinking that one organized room had put Harry on some permanent 'watch list'?

Soon, though, Harry had to abandon that line of thought to concentrate on his spellwork. He wasn't sure he even remembered what wizardry _was,_ let alone how to work with a wand. Every so often, entirely independent of his control but in time with his heartbeat, a burst of magic would pulse from the doorway in his hand, through the wand, to cast the mage's version of the spell he'd been planning. Every time, Hermione's expression grew warier.

"Harry," she asked at last, "are you all right?"

_No,_ Harry thought, but instead he said, "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

But it didn't get better through the rest of the day. Lunch without his Liar's Palace was as bad as breakfast, and still no one spoke to him to distract him; he spent every moment expecting Snape or McGonagall or Dumbledore to ask to speak to him and call him out as a mage; another free spent trying to reach his magic was another free wasted; Potions using the clearly flawed text was intolerable, and Slughorn's joviality almost made his ears bleed; he skipped dinner to avoid another meal of overwhelming taste and ostracism; finally, at the end of the day, he was able to go to his dormitory.

Lying on his bed with the hangings drawn around him, eyes closed against the intensity of the scarlet color, Harry started breathing, desperate this time to reach his magic no matter how long it took.

_Breathe in, two, three, four, five, six, seven; hold, two, three… _The rhythm and simplicity of focusing on his breath was soothing. Slowly, as he breathed, he managed to calm his pounding heart and relax, erasing the panic from the night before. Ginny would be fine; Hermione would learn that there was nothing wrong with what he was doing; Ron would realize he was still Harry and would regain his old ease around him; everything would work out. He was a mage. He could make sure it worked out.

At some point he stopped counting and didn't notice. The rhythm of breathing in, holding, and breathing out was so familiar, so ingrained in his mage's practice, that he didn't need to think about it anymore. He'd reached his old calm, the dark place he reached just before he found his magic.

And then his magic was there. It swept around him, green lightning flickering around his arms, across his face; Harry Potter opened his mental eyes onto a sea of his magic.

Then Mage Potter opened his physical eyes onto the boys' dormitory.

---

With his connection to his magic regained, Hogwarts became easy again. Harry went through the books he'd gotten in Knockturn Alley again, added new memories to his Liar's Palace, perfected his use of the doorway in his hand and imitated use of a wand, and continued to ignore Hermione's continued attempts to get him to open up about what he'd been doing.

Soon enough, it was time for the Christmas Hogsmeade weekend.

---

**(1) **Yes, this will be Ginny/Luna. (Congrats to those who called it.) No, they're not kissing in the Room. No, they're not having sex in the Room. I just wanted to make that clear.


	13. From Hogsmeade to Hell

A/N: I'm sorry this has taken me so long. But I'm back, and here's the next chapter. I combined two because this one was so short, but I couldn't really add the next one because it wouldn't flow together well. This chapter should see many changes and should settle some of the questions of repetitiveness that were raised after the last chapter (I know what I'm doing, I promise). And the new summary is up! Like you hadn't noticed.

Anyway, I don't own Harry Potter, this is a work of fanfiction, behold, it is disclaimed. On with the fic!

A/N 2: Seriously reworked after several points were brought to my attention. Parts of the first half have been changed, and the entire second half of the chapter has been rewritten. Most of the same things happen, just… in a completely different way.

Also, I have DISABLED ANONYMOUS REVIEWS. If you say something, good or bad, about my story, I would like to reply to it. I love reviews. I realize that what makes sense to me will not always make sense to you. So I like knowing what I have neglected to explain. I also think the English language is the most ambiguous thing in the world, and would like to ask for clarification or opinions on fixing things. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, and I hope the necessity of logging in doesn't scare you away!

---

Harry met his friends in the Great Hall the morning of the Hogsmeade trip. This time, he wasn't surprised when no one turned to look at him. He wasn't even sorry. It gave him time to look at them.

Ginny and Luna were standing together, Luna with her arms comfortingly around Ginny, Ginny with her head held high. They were going as friends—_just friends—_but there was an unmistakable energy between them that said they wouldn't be going that way the next time there was a trip like this.

Hermione was for once avoiding his gaze, trying not to face him or even acknowledge his presence. It was a rather sad thing to see her next to Ron, the redhead looking like he really wanted to hold her hand but wasn't sure if he had the courage, her looking like she was finally really considering what Harry was becoming and what that would mean for her.

Harry stepped up to follow the group out past Filch. Like the others, Filch ignored Harry completely. Harry wondered what had happened in the time he'd lost to cause that reaction in Filch; he certainly couldn't remember doing anything that would make _Filch,_ of all people, leave him alone. But despite checking and re-checking everyone else's names against his list of permitted students, Filch didn't give Harry a glance. His jowls twitched when Harry passed him, as though it caused him great physical pain to let him go without at least asking him if he had permission to leave the castle, but he did it.

The walk to Hogsmeade had never seemed shorter. Despite not speaking to any of his friends or any of them speaking to him, he had yet to lose the excitement that had come from regaining his connection with his magic, and he delved further into his discoveries of magic on the way there.

He hadn't been planning to split off from the group. Really, he hadn't. There was no Knockturn Alley in Hogsmeade, no reason for him to leave. Then he saw Narcissa Malfoy walking down the street past him.

None of the others appeared to have seen her, or if they had, they were deliberately ignoring her; but Harry's magic confirmed what he had seen. Narcissa Malfoy was in Hogsmeade, disappearing into an alley just a few yards behind him.

Before any of his friends realized the sudden burst of life from their friend, he'd turned to run toward the alley at top speed.

Narcissa faced him, smiling, wand out. "Hello, Potter," she said. "You've been causing the Dark Lord a good deal of trouble recently."

"What are you doing here?" he asked her. More importantly, his magic wanted to know, if she'd gone so far to keep Draco from becoming a Death Eater, why was she still loyal?

She at least had the grace to look ashamed of herself. "Exactly what they are," she said, gesturing to either side of her.

Harry's head snapped to his left. The man pointing a wand at him had a face he recognized from wanted posters and a name he remembered from a Pensieve memory. _Rookwood._ He'd barely thought the name when his hand snapped out to the side, arcing down and around, a streak of green fire shooting from his fingertips to lash out at Rookwood. Blood dripped from the corner of the Death Eater's mouth and he collapsed in a heap, cut nearly in half, the cut edged with the same green acid that had long ago severed Aunt Petunia's veins and stopped the wound from clotting. He was dead, or so nearly there it didn't make a difference. Harry turned to his right. His hand shot out before he consciously recognized the man lunging at him.

Fenrir Grayback fell to his knees, desperately clawing at the band of green lightning wrapped around his throat, which grew rapidly, ferociously tighter as though actively determined to see him dead in the next few moments.

Those two on the ground and incapacitated, Harry turned back to Narcissa. The witch smiled at him and spread her hands innocently before she turned on the spot and Disapparated. Stepping into her place from just behind her was another female Death Eater Harry knew only too well.

"Bellatrix," he snarled, the word trailing off into a breathless whisper as the force of his rage hit him.

He hated her. He was furious at seeing her. It stole his breath and made his temples pound with the force of the emotion. His rage colored his vision red through the glasses he still wore. His hands clenched into fists involuntarily, releasing Greyback from his grasp. The voice of his magic was swept away from him in the face of this onslaught of emotion. He felt deaf and blind, lost without that presence in his mind; but his rage gave him purpose.

"Bellatrix," he growled again.

She smiled wickedly. "Hello, little baby Potter," she said. "Little Baby Potter, the man of the green fire… it looks like the little baby grew up a little bit, huh?"

"I will _kill_ you!" he yelled. But for the first time in weeks, he had no idea how he would carry out such a threat. His magic had always told him how to do things like this, new magecraft and willpower spells. Without his magic, even his wand abandoned in his trunk at Hogwarts, he didn't know how to fight. Instead, he launched himself at her, fists flying, furious and helpless and hating everything about the moment, most especially the woman in front of him and the fact that she breathed when Sirius did not.

Bellatrix laughed, high-pitched and shrill. She grabbed his wrists and held them away from her easily, snapping out his arms so far he was dragged in to be pressed up against her. He struggled, but his focus on magecraft and constant rest and lack of food had sapped him of strength. The magic in his blood that had powered his body for so long had made him dependent; and now, like the voice of his magic, that was lost to him as well, and he was helpless against Bellatrix in yet another way. Bella kept laughing as she transferred both of his wrists to one of her hands so she could grab his waist with the other.

"I don't think so, Little Baby Potter," she said mockingly. "See, the Dark Lord has been waiting a long time to meet the man with the green fire… and you just volunteered to go meet him." Still holding him captive with one arm, she turned in a slow circle as though they were dancing, grinning cruelly, and Disapparated with him.

He would have screamed if he'd had a voice. It felt like every bone in his body was being crushed. He remembered dimly that in the summer he'd been able to manage this with Dumbledore. Now, with so much experience with magecraft, even without his magic he felt not like he was being squeezed through a tube of toothpaste, but like he was being crushed into a fine powder and it would be a miracle if he came out on the other side correctly reassembled.

He was only too happy to fall unconscious before finding out what happened on the other side.

---

He was unconscious. Everything was black. But his magic was tending to him, swirling around him, fixing everything that had been torn apart in the nowhere-space between here and there, and healing the connection that had been shattered by his rage. He only felt calm, meditative. His magic had returned. He was a mage again, powerful, safe.

His magic told him that he had been unconscious for a long time. Days, less than a week, it believed, but it couldn't be sure. It had been listening while Harry recovered. Wherever they were, no one ever entered except Bellatrix, and her only by Apparition. His magic thought it was a safe bet that there were neither doors nor windows into the place. It also believed that when he woke up, he would be hit with a recruitment speech about how he should join Voldemort or die.

Finally, resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be able to get out without waking up, he opened his eyes.

The room was dark, but more sharply focused than it should have been. Raising a hand to his face, Harry realized with a jolt that he didn't have his glasses. His magic informed him that they had been taken from him, as the only item on his body that had any magical properties. Both Harry and his magic found the notion that taking the glasses away would make him any less of a threat ridiculous. Surrounding the room in Anti-Apparition wards, as his magic informed him had also been done, wouldn't stop them long either, once he was fully healed.

He looked around briefly. He was lying on a small cot, a sheet draped over him. The walls, floor and ceiling of this place were all bare concrete. The only other furniture in the room was a small table with a single chair. A tray of food was set on the table. Harry almost laughed aloud. In contact with his magic again, he didn't need food. Then he remembered the helplessness that had hit him when he'd seen Bellatrix, and almost reconsidered. His magic rushed to inform him that it had been working to buffer him from the strength of his emotions while he was asleep. There was no serious danger from that direction.

There was a loud _crack_ across the room. Harry looked over and saw, as his magic had told him he would, Bellatrix. He looked away quickly, but the buffers were working; the emotions he felt were minimal next to the killing rage that had divided him from his magic in Hogsmeade.

"You're awake," Bellatrix said. "About bloody time. You've kept the Dark Lord waiting for far too long, Potter. And me running errands like a bloody house-elf," she added under her breath.

He didn't answer. His hearing was muffled oddly, but he still felt a strange, cold fury at the sound of her voice and the reverent way she caressed the title of her master.

"Not going to say anything, Potter?" Bellatrix asked, and there was taunting in that voice now. Harry's hands clenched into fists without his willing it. "All right, then," Bella continued. "I'll talk. You've been hiding very effectively for quite a while. I was almost starting to worry you wouldn't come to the Hogsmeade weekend. Lucky me I didn't need to worry. You came running right into my arms." Harry focused his glare at the wall.

"The Dark Lord is very eager to meet you, Potter," she said. "He's been wanting to give you one more chance. You can join him. You'd live—"

Harry laughed. It was a cruel sound more suited to Voldemort than the Boy-Who-Lived, but it was a laugh, in some sense at least. "No," he said. "I don't think I will. I'm not _that_ different, Bella."

Bellatrix's answering laugh matched his. It sounded clearer now. His magic told him to calm down before his rage broke down the buffers. Harry took in a breath and released it, relaxing his hands through force of will. "We'll see," she said. "The Dark Lord is _quite_ confident that in time, you will join him. With the proper persuasion."

"What persuasion would that be?" Harry asked. "There's nothing you wizards can do that would hurt me. Nothing you can do to threaten me. So what are you going to do to get me to join him?" For just a moment, he looked over at her.

She was much closer than she had been, crouched not far from him while she taunted him. Without meaning to, Harry met her eyes and was swept into her soul, leaving the voice of his magic and the buffers around his body far behind.

Bellatrix Lestrange's soul was a horrific place. The landscape was black and twisted, as she imagined evil to be. The only spots of color were green or silver for her pride as a Slytherin pureblood. Grotesquely twisted shapes dotted the ground, some humanoid, some not, but all terror-inspiring. The air around them caressed the shapes lovingly, as though these dreadful things were something to be proud of. Harry abruptly realized he was standing on her Dark Mark.

But there was no battle. The air blew only gently; the few figures that moved seemed to be engaged in a dance of some sort. Bellatrix, wicked, sadistic, cruel Bellatrix, was happy with herself. Hermione fought the darkness within her; Ginny battled hard not to admit her own identity; Lupin desperately wished not to love Tonks; but Bella was happy. She was horrifying, but she was happy. Her tainted, twisted soul was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.

Harry wanted to keep that for himself. If he had to look in a soul, he would be all right looking into hers.

Bella screamed.

Harry blinked. He suddenly realized there were tears running down his cheeks, and at some point he had ended up kneeling in front of her, left hand on the ground so he could get closer, right hand on the bare skin of her left forearm, right over the Dark Mark. He could feel his heart pounding, and his magic flowing out of his hand through the cut in time with his racing heart, into her arm, into the Mark, destroying it, replacing it. He didn't know what it would be when it stopped, but Bella's beauty, that peaceful soul, that would be _his,_ just as he'd wanted.

But it must have hurt her, because Bella was screaming. She was trying to get his hand off, but her own hand was repelled by some kind of force field around him, created by his magic so he could complete this task. The air around them was whirling in a storm, carrying the table and chair and trays of food around and around, ripping pieces off them. He wasn't sure whose magic was making the storm.

And suddenly it was over. Harry released Bella's arm and stood, stepping back, smiling, happy. The only person in the world who wasn't battling with herself, and she was his.

Bella's hand was clutched over what had been the Dark Mark. When she took it away to look at it, Harry saw a green lightning bolt spiraling around her arm from wrist to elbow. He smiled more broadly.

"You're mine, now," he said. "_Bella_ Bella, beautiful Bella—you're mine." He was practically bouncing up and down.

Bella didn't respond. She was curled around the arm that had once bore the Dark Mark, clutching it as thought it still burned her.

"You're happy," he said. "You don't know how rare that is. You, you're happy with yourself. There's no battle. There's a _dance._ You're delighted to be the way you are."

Bella muttered something. Harry stopped bouncing. "What?" he asked.

Bella raised her head. "I said," she hissed through gasps of breath, "are _you?_"

Harry frowned. "I'm a mage," he said, smiling the empty smile he gave now to get people to leave him alone. "What more would I need to be happy?"

Bella shrieked with something like laughter. "You think you're happy," she said. "Can you cast the Cruciatus yet, Potter?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"That's how it started, remember? I saw it, Potter. The beginning. Right before you started to burn off my arm. You started this quest because you couldn't cast the Cruciatus Curse."

Harry looked aside, searching his memory. Oh, yes—he _did_ remember that. He looked back at her, uncaring now. "Why would I need to cast that now? I can just do this." With his magic's direction, he sent a brief pulse of magic through the mark on Bellatrix's arm. She screamed and curled tighter around the limb, shaking violently.

Harry laughed. It felt _good_ to see her in pain like that. It felt…

It _felt._

His magic faltered. His hold on Bellatrix broke for just a moment, and she staggered to her feet, away from him.

"What…?" he whispered. "What did I just do?"

"What you _wanted _to do, Potter," Bella said, leaning against the table. "What you _felt._ Admit it. It felt _good._"

His eyes flicked up, nearly to hers, then away. That was what he'd thought…

"This was what you wanted, Potter!" she said, waving her arm at him. "You wanted me, helpless, in pain, suffering for killing Sirius! Remember when you wanted that?"

It was like a whole cabinet in his House of the Mind had shattered, spilling memories over him. Sirius falling through the veil… Lupin holding him back… trying to cast the Cruciatus… navigating the library… the _Dresden Files,_ and there was something he'd forgotten, but he didn't know anymore what it was… _meaning_ it… Bellatrix laughing… Hermione's fear for him… burning the book with anger, not calm… Dumbledore telling him about Sirius' will-reading, and how had he forgotten about that?… the months of lost time…

Shit. Now he remembered what had happened in those months of lost time. Now he knew why no one would talk to him, why he'd lost so much time without noticing, why Filch was afraid of him, why Hermione watched him like a hawk, why he'd done those essays perfectly, why he didn't remember a damn thing. He was _terrified,_ suddenly, and he would give anything to never stop being terrified, because the terror kept the magic away.

"What's happened to me?" he whispered. He suddenly realized he was on his knees.

There was a hand around his throat, squeezing. He looked up, and Bellatrix was choking the life out of him, eyes dispassionate.

"What happened is that Little Baby Potter grew up a little too fast," Bellatrix explained softly, uncaringly. "But don't worry. It'll be over soon." She brought her other hand to bear.

Harry understood, suddenly, that she hadn't been allowed to bring her wand in, and that without her Dark Mark she wouldn't be able to leave. The most she would be able to do would be to take him with her.

That was fine with him. Whatever kept him from ever losing himself for months like that was fine with him. The wizarding world could find itself a new savior.

But Bella wasn't holding on anymore. She'd let go, hissing, biting through her lip to keep from screaming again. The mark on her arm was glowing a bright green, and Harry was feeling better. Bruises were appearing around Bella's neck, in fact, rather like what would be created by someone wrapping their hands around her neck and squeezing.

Harry watched in astonishment, pure shock and surprise running through him as they hadn't in months. He wasn't sure if he was happy or grief-stricken to no longer be dying, but he felt _something,_ and that was what was important to him right now. As long as he felt something, he would be all right.

"What the bloody hell—" Bella gritted.

"I told you," Harry said. "You're mine."

"Like hell!" Bella shouted.

"You can't hurt me, so you can't fight it," Harry said as though he was being perfectly reasonable, standing and approaching her. "And you can't get rid of the mark, so you can't get rid of me. So come now. Let's go."

"And how will we do that?" she asked. "Anti-Apparition wards, remember?"

Harry looked around the room. "Right," he said vaguely. "I remember." He took her hand, holding on tightly enough that she would have to hurt him to get him off her. "They're partially shredded from the storm earlier. It shouldn't be too difficult to dodge them."

"Who's talking now?" Bella asked. "You, or _it?_"

Harry looked at her, surprised. "You almost sounded like you cared," he said, smiling, happy to have someone say something kind like that, even if they didn't mean it.

"Death Eater. Slytherin. Great liar," she said shortly.

He laughed. Then he aligned the lightning-bolt cut on his hand with the mark on her arm and took a deep breath. He couldn't ask his magic for help, not as happy as he'd been a moment before, not as scared as he was now, not as angry as Bella still made him. He would have to do this by feel. He closed his eyes, wrapped his free hand around Bella's, reached with his magic into the mark on her arm, and _wished_ to be home.

When he opened his eyes, they were in Hogwarts.


	14. On the Outside

A/N: The last chapter was short, so I decided to get this one up fast. And I would recommend going back to re-read the last chapter if you read it the first day it was up, because it's been seriously revised.

Gabrielle's English is meant to be worse than Fleur's, but I'll try not to make it too confusing. The idea for Veela's age comes from a Chapter 10 review from Death-in-the-Shadows.

Oh, and speaking of Chapter 10, the line "Buy yourself some new robes, Moony" is a slightly modified version of a line from "Noir Et Blanc" by Tsurai no Shi. I found it on a re-read.

This chapter is concurrent with the last one, but takes place elsewhere. (Assume Harry's magic's estimate of time is off.)

Not counting this one, there are three chapters left planned in _Meaning It;_ then we move to the planned sequel.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

---

A slim, pale hand rose and knocked on the door of the ancient mansion. After a moment, it was opened from within by a tall woman wearing black silk robes that were overlaid by some kind of thin web.

"Madam Malfoy," said the lady of the house.

"Let's skip the formalities, shall we, Chimere?" Narcissa Malfoy said, pushing back the hood of her cloak. "It's rather too cold to pretend we don't know each other."

Chimere Zabini nodded and stood back, allowing the other woman into the house. No sooner had Narcissa crossed the threshold than a strange, rapid clicking sound came from the corridor and a spider taller than either of the two women emerged, approaching Narcissa.

Chimere made a strange chittering in the back of her throat that shouldn't have been possible with a human mouth. The spider looked at her with its many eyes and replied with its gigantic pincers. Chimere repeated the sound, and the spider scrutinized Narcissa carefully before extending one leg. Narcissa looked questioningly at Chimere.

"It is offering to take your cloak," Chimere explained. Impressed despite herself, Narcissa took off her cloak and laid it over the spider's leg. The giant spider carried it only slightly awkwardly to a coat tree in the corner, where it stayed crouched like the world's most demonic guard dog. Narcissa looked to her hostess. Cloak off, she wore black robes not unlike those of her hostess, except that hers bore silver trim rather than overlaid spiderweb.

"Spider-speak," she said to Chimere. "Impressive."

Chimere smiled. "Thought a myth even by our own kind." Narcissa assumed she meant wizards, as clearly Chimere knew Spider-speakers existed. "It's very useful. You can see, now, why no one ever dared stand against us. Acromantula venom is quite deadly. And in a family, they can do a great amount of damage."

"I assume that's only one of many reasons," Narcissa said.

Chimere threw back her head and laughed. "True," she said, returning cold eyes and a smiling face to Narcissa. "We also have the greatest spellcrafters in all the world, and the children who survive our family's tests are among the strongest wizards."

"Speaking of your family's decisions, why the change of heart?" Narcissa asked as Chimere beckoned her back through the house. Feeling eyes on her, she looked up. She had barely met the eyes of the boy on the landing above her and had time to recognize the disgust in his expression before his eyes flicked to the giant spider and he chittered something to it in the same language his mother had used before leaving, the spider following up the stairs much more nimbly than Narcissa would have expected.

"Blaise doesn't approve of my decision," Chimere said. Narcissa turned back to her hostess, nodding as though she understood. Chimere waved a hand. "Let us go into the parlor and discuss this further."

Narcissa followed the other woman into what had once been the den of the most famously neutral family in Britain.

---

Yaxley faced the Minister of Magic over the desk, waiting patiently and politely while Scrimgeour finished reading the list of formal accusations against the Director of Experimental Magic.

"I trust, Yaxley," Scrimgeour said at last, lowering the paper, "that you recognize the seriousness of these accusations."

"I do, Minister," Yaxley replied evenly. "But I trust I have given you sufficient evidence to support them."

Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour nodded thoughtfully. "You have," he agreed, and set down the parchment. "I will have a formal investigation begun immediately. If your suspicions are confirmed, Director Chang will be arrested within a fortnight."

Yaxley bowed his head. "Thank you, Minister," he said. "That is a weight off my mind."

---

_Dear Viktor,_

_I'm sure you've heard by now, but Harry's gone missing. Everyone's terribly worried, but the truth is that I've been worried about him a lot longer than this._

_Harry's been acting very strangely all year. He spent a lot more time in his room than he normally does, and when he was around us he was very distanced. He knew things he shouldn't know, cast spells he shouldn't have managed. Over the summer he confronted me—irony of ironies—about the lessons I had with you when you were in Britain. I'm sure he's been learning a lot more than that. He cast a nonverbal spell not even Professor Snape had heard of the first day of class. I gave him the fantasy books I told you about, but I think I shouldn't have. I think that's what started this._

_Oh, why am I worried about that now? Harry's __missing!__ I don't know what to do! I can scry—you've said yourself I'm a fair hand at it—but scrying isn't exactly taught here. I don't think I should; I'd have a hard time getting any help getting him out of wherever he is even if I did manage to find him, and a harder time getting help to get him out without getting arrested._

_What am I meant to do? I want to help him, but I can't go find him without using forbidden magic._

_I wish you were here._

_Love_

_Hermione_

Viktor read the letter one more time. He noted once again her concern with getting caught using forbidden magic, her assumption that she could find Harry if she tried, and the way she had written "Love" before she'd remembered herself and scratched it out—not too effectively, though, as though unsure of herself. Once more he remembered his respect for her, his exasperation with her, and his care for her, and why he wanted to respect her wishes and return. Then he set fire to the letter, pocketed his wand and headed outside to Apparate to Hermione.

---

"I can't finish this."

"Then don't."

"It's not that simple, dammit!" Draco slammed his hands into the sink. "I have to do this, or my mother's life is forfeit!"

Moaning Myrtle placed her hand just above Draco's shoulder and made an awkward patting motion. "Can't you get help? From anyone?"

Draco hesitated, unwilling to admit that he had an offer of protection from the Golden Boy, of all people. Myrtle caught the hesitation. "Who is it, Draco? Who will protect you?"

"Potter," Draco admitted at last. "Potter offered my mother and me protection, as Lord Black."

"Then take it!" Myrtle cried. "Take the offer, Draco; you've said so many times you can't finish this. Take the way out!"

"I can't!" he said. "Even if he didn't hate me, he's been so different lately I'm not sure he'd honor his agreement."

"He made a promise to you as the head of a pureblood family," Myrtle said. "He'll keep his promise."

Draco looked away. "I don't know if I can take the offer even if he will," he whispered. "It's _Potter._ What chance does a Muggle-raised halfblood have in protecting me and Mother against the Dark Lord?"

Myrtle sighed. "He's meant to do it, Draco. You know that. Ask for his help or don't, but you won't survive this experience without him. You've already figured that out."

---

_Dear Hermione,_

_I am glad to hear from you, and distressed to hear that Harry Potter is in danger. I am headed to Britain and will meet you at the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade as soon as you can get away from school._

_Love,_

_Viktor_

Hermione walked up to the Owlery, shaking over what she was about to do. It wasn't like her to break so many rules—and laws—without the prompting of Harry and Ron, but she didn't have a choice anymore. Harry had been gone a week in body, and far longer than that in mind; and the presence of Rookwood and Greyback at the scene of his disappearance confirmed he'd been kidnapped. Of course, of the two, Rookwood was dead and Greyback had run before any officials showed up, werewolf power deflecting all the spells the youths had sent his way and werewolf speed rapidly outdistancing them; but it was evidence enough for all involved.

The Owlery was fortunately empty. Hermione cast a Temporary Locking Charm on the door, setting it for five minutes; then she took a breath and began to change.

Her hair ruffled as though in a breeze, strands plaiting and fusing; her clothes melded seamlessly into her skin before the colors swirled and the fabric rose in a different pattern and texture. Under her skin, her bones shifted, cracking and hollowing, arms moving and adjusting, fingers changing shape and spreading wide, legs shrinking while her toenails became talons. Her mouth and nose hardened and slid out into a point; for one terrifying moment she lost her senses before her sight and hearing returned, sharper than before, while taste and smell remained empty and touch largely unchanged. The ground rose up to meet her; she flapped her still-developing wings and hopped off the floor, out of the window before she'd finished changing. As she struggled to balance herself the way she knew she could, her talons sharpened, feathers layered and settled, hair shortened, beak curved, and then she was off toward Hogsmeade to meet Viktor.

---

"I love you."

Ginny looked across the study table in the Room of Requirement, looking not at all surprised. She smiled at Luna. "I thought you did."

Luna smiled back. "I've loved you quite a while. Much longer than this year. Since DA, actually. You always seemed quite interested in men, but I have a terrible tendency to not give up."

"I'm glad you didn't." Ginny was quiet for a while as they returned to their homework. After a few minutes she said, "I love you, too."

Luna looked up. There was surprise in her gaze.

"I can't say for certain that I'm in love with you, as I've never experienced it before…" Ginny took a breath. "But I was glad you were the one to come see me when I came out, and I'm never happier than when we're in here, and I thought about that Hogsmeade weekend like it was a date. I thought about it for hours, wondering what I was meant to wear and whether I should hold your hand on the way there and if a date with a girl was the same as with a guy and if we were going to kiss and a whole host of other things that I never really thought about when I went on dates with my boyfriends except because other people asked first. I really want to go to Hogsmeade again with you, Luna… only this time not as friends."

Luna smiled delightedly. "I'm very glad to hear that. And I won't rush you," she said. "This is all very new for you, and I wouldn't expect you to know, yet, exactly what your feelings are. But I do love you, Ginny, very much."

---

Hermione landed just outside Hogsmeade and transformed back into a girl, a process somehow much more uncomfortable than the painless first change. She took her wand out of her pocket, cast a few spells to change her appearance and one to make her school robes into robes more appropriate for Hogsmeade's usual clientele, and headed to the Hog's Head.

It was easy to spot Viktor; he was sitting in the corner he'd always reserved for himself when he went out during the Tournament, the same spells on his appearance she'd used to change hers, so that they looked like the couple they'd appeared to be on their more illicit dates her fourth year. The dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman who had once been Hermione approached the bulky-framed messy-haired brunette who had replaced Viktor.

"I ordered you a butterbeer," Viktor said in a voice that was a little too high and too heavily accented for the person Hermione knew, passing her the bottle. "I thought you'd come today."

Hermione smiled ruefully. "You thought I'd come sooner," she translated in a voice that was just a touch throatier than hers. "You just ordered one today because you were getting impatient."

Viktor motioned her to a seat, smiling in return. "Your owl made it seem urgent. I expected you to be more concerned."

Hermione sighed and lowered her voice. "And I told you in that owl that I don't know if I'm okay with this, with using semi-illegal spells to find Harry."

Viktor responded in kind. "You used fully illegal spells to get here. Semi-illegal should pale in comparison."

Taking a swig of butterbeer, she answered, "Yes, it should. But no one but you knows how I got here. If I find him using that semi-illegal magic, I'll have to say something to someone. And what I say will probably have to be true."

"And this would be so terrible?"

She looked at him pleadingly. "You don't understand! Everything is—it's just _hard_ for me. I'm trying not to turn out like Voldemort, looking for knowledge I don't need or want and using it until something breaks. But with Harry ending up the way he is, and now with him gone… I don't think I can do it."

"Again, this would be so terrible?"

"Yes!" she insisted.

Viktor covered her hand with his. "Finish your butterbeer. We'll go somewhere private and find him. No one will have to know." What was meant to be a reassuring look only reminded her that Viktor had been among the Durmstrang students to sit with the Slytherins, and would dodge the consequences of scrying by lying his arse off. She nodded slightly and finished her drink.

---

Gabrielle stopped three stairs from the bottom when she heard the familiar voices of her sister and her brother-in-law-to-be.

"Gold for ze bridesmaids' dresses, I sink—but did you 'ave a plan for _les costumes_ for your groomsmen?" Fleur was asking.

Bill sounded surprised. "I hadn't really thought about it, yet," he said. "I mean," and Gabrielle guessed he was on the receiving end of one of Fleur's glares, "I have a few ideas, but I hadn't really decided yet."

"Well, we should do zat!" Fleur said.

Gabrielle scowled at the book in her hands. If they saw it, they would be crushed. She set it down on the step and descended into the room below, smiling broadly.

"Gabi!" Fleur exclaimed on seeing her young sister. "_Qu'est-ce que tu voudrais?_"

Gabrielle responded in English. "I just wanted to say that you probably want to wait a bit longer to get the dresses for _les demoiselles d'honneur_," she explained, smiling. She reached behind her head and unclipped her hair, shaking out the blonde curls to let them see the shine they'd developed. Stepping further into the room, she twirled so they could see how much taller she'd grown in just a week.

Fleur screamed in delight, clapping her hands and standing to view her younger sister. "My little Gabi is growing up!" she said. "_C'est magnifique!_"

Gabi smiled.

"You're right, of course," Fleur said. "You'll be growing much too fast, and anyzing you wear now might clash later. So we will wait." She looked back at Bill, who was staring at Gabi, apparently thunderstruck by the change.

Gabrielle chose to explain. "Veela don't really age until we reach puberty, which is right before our magical majority. I'm almost fifteen, so…" she smiled. "I only looked ten because any older and Veela start giving off _notre lumière d'amour_."

"So looking young is a defense mechanism," Bill said, nodding. "I mean, I knew Veela had a late puberty, and a short one, but… jeez, it looks like you grew three inches in a week."

"_Probablement c'est vrai_," Gabrielle giggled. She looked at Fleur. "There was something else I wanted to ask you about,_ ma soeur_."

"What is it?"

Gabrielle almost didn't ask. Then she remembered the book, and the trust she had in Harry, and her conviction that he was the only one who could help her now. "I want to go to Hogwarts until the end of the school year," she said.

Fleur looked surprised. Gabrielle explained. "You're here, planning the wedding; and _Maman_ never went through the Change. You're the best to ask about anything that comes up. And _les garçons_ _à Beauxbatons_ are intolerable at the best of times. This will make it worse. Besides, I want to help plan the wedding."

Fleur hugged her sister. "Of course, _ma petite soeur!_ That would be wonderful! We can set it up immediately!"

Gabrielle hugged Fleur back, trying to smile and not cry, trying desperately not to think of the book she'd left on the step behind her, and refusing to think of what it would mean for the planned wedding… or the lack thereof.


End file.
